


Grehm

by HolidayFeartree



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alchemy, Archery, Arthurian, Cambion, Dark Fantasy, Demons, Dragons, Epic Battles, F/M, Kings & Queens, Magic, Monsters, Romance, Shapeshifting, Succubus, Swords, Swords & Sorcery, Wizards, incubus, red hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-13 08:04:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 101,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21240857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolidayFeartree/pseuds/HolidayFeartree
Summary: Ome Kobayashi is afraid to leave her home, but as fortune would have it, she is spirited away to a politically divided realm riddled with magic⚡, monarchs🤴, and wizards🧙. In her pursuit to navigate this strange new land, Ome befriends one of the most despised of creatures:a flesh eating demon 👹._______________________This was one of the first full length (original) stories I'd written (under "Cat Blade") almost eight years ago, with about two years' worth of revisions. My style has changed and evolved since then, but I figured I'd share this with readers of my fanfics.





	1. Chapter 1

“No. My name is pronounced OH-ME.”

“OH-ME?” asked the nurse. The gentle sound of tapping filled the awkward silence as her fingers typed away at a laptop. “Oh yeah, ok, I see it here. Your name is actually _Omelia_. Huh… interesting.”

Ome Kobayashi sank into her chair and nodded. _Interesting, _she thought._ What does that mean? No one can ever pronounce it right. Oh – must be interesting that I can’t pronounce your stupid name. Sure. Let’s call things interesting when really they seem kind of stupid._ She paused and shifted in her seat. _Or really you’re just kind of stupid. _As her eyes bounced away from the nurse, her thoughts settled on the word _stupid_. Within that same moment she noticed a selection of women’s magazines stacked on the counter next to the laptop. One of the covers read: **Make Him Addicted to You!**Ome smirked. _Now that’s stupid…_

“Age?” asked the nurse.

“Twenty-seven.”

“Smoker?”

“No,” Ome lied. She occasionally had a cigarette, but nothing that entailed being a _smoker_. Smokers were addicts. Her dad was a smoker. Ome wasn’t. She wasn’t _addicted_ to cigarettes. Make cigarettes addicted to YOU_, _thought Ome. She smirked again.

“Taking any medications?”

“No.”

“Any surgeries?”

“Just this.” Ome raised her left hand, revealing a partially severed pinky finger.

“Wanna explain that?” The nurse raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“It happened a while ago,” said Ome. “I was jumped on my way to the car – parked downtown at the stadium.”

“Can you give me a date for the surgery?”

Ome sighed. “Uh… hm. It was five years ago. The incident happened on January 7th. Can’t forget that. But, I can’t remember the date of the surgery…”

Nodding, the nurse continued typing. “Can you explain the actual injury a little more?”

Ome scratched her brow nervously and nodded. “He had a knife. He wanted my purse. When he tried pulling it outta my grip, my hand flew up. Sort of a defense reaction – I dunno. Anyway, he started whipping his knife around and I ended up getting cut. Sliced the top of my finger pretty deep. I was told the damage was pretty severe, so my doctor had to remove the tip.” She cleared her throat. “But, eh, my hand still functions and most people don’t even notice it.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Ome shrugged.

The nurse closed her laptop, lifting and hugging it to her chest. She smiled as politely as she could. “The doctor should be with you in just a moment.” Reaching into a drawer, the nurse withdrew a folded, paper gown. “Strip down to your underwear and put this on – ok?”

Ome’s eyes shifted uncomfortably as she reached for the gown.

“This is just a checkup,” she smiled. “No reason to fret.”

“I know.”

“Relax. It won’t take long.”

“Ok…”

* * *

Ome Kobayashi _hated_ leaving the house. Visiting the doctor proved she could do it when she had to, but all in all, leaving made bile rise in the back of her throat. That was why trips away from home rarely occurred. Not just lengthy trips, but the simple ones too. Trips to the store, trips to the bank. She couldn’t handle any of it – not since the attack. And it was a funny thing, being attacked. Not funny in a_ haha _way, but funny in a _Why the fuck did this happen to me?_ kind of way. Too often the traumatic event looped in her mind, and too often she wished she’d done something different.

Ome even had nightmares about the attack. While some of her dreams were just a blow-by-blow repeat of what happened, others were less straightforward. Once, she dreamed her attacker knifed another person. A different person. It was some man – completely blindsided. All the while, Ome stood by and did nothing. She just _watched_ like some kind of asshole. Watched her assailant cut the man from his neck to his groin, digging that knife across the underside of his skin. Peeled it back like an onion, nearly skinning his victim alive. Ome was horrified. Stunned, in fact – never called for help. When the thought finally occurred to her, she’d always wake up – every damn time.

* * *

Returning from the doctor’s office, Ome locked both front doors – the storm door and the large, wooden door. Bolting two padlocks against the wall, she was relieved to _finally_ be back in the house. Social interaction was not her thing. She felt _flat_ around other people. Real life could be so fucking surreal sometimes. It was as if everything nearby compressed down into the thinnest pages of a picture book. And page by page, as she mingled, Ome fought intrusive, self-deprecating thoughts. As they rolled through her mind, her panic heightened. To counter the panic, she detached. _Dissociation_, they called it. An out of body experience, really. Or rather a self-imposed mindfuck. Self-imposed, yet involuntary. Madness, really. Either way, that was how she coped. But that breed of detachment was unnerving. _Nauseating_. As soon as Ome stepped back into her home, her world became real again. All the _flat_ things bounced back to size. Back to _life_.

In spite of broken spirits and severed fingers, Ome _was_ lucky. After her parents died, she had come of age and was conveniently left with a trust fund. Convenient, right? An honest to goodness _trust fund baby_ – the kind that working stiffs gave the finger. Well, the finger followed by profane encouragement to seek _real_ employment. But given Ome’s condition, finding a job was almost impossible. She didn’t possess the skills necessary for a high-end telecommuting job, and she wasn’t about to open an online store selling gaudy knick-knacks and shitty homemade candles. The trust fund helped. It helped her stay alive – but only inside of that house. In truth, she was imprisoned there. Trapped between those walls, Ome was isolated from others and lost within the confines of lonely familiarity.

* * *

Ome’s mother and father didn’t die at the same time, but their deaths occurred within the same year. Interestingly, they were no longer married during that year. They didn’t live together and hadn’t seen one another in _months_. It was a hard year. Ome had barely turned seventeen so she wasn’t even an adult yet. Mom and dad wanted to see her as much as they could, so she adopted this new, awkward routine of bouncing between their homes every few weeks. She thought it was such bullshit, until everything came to a tragic halt just before her following birthday.

The breakdown was as follows – Ome’s mother was crushed to death in an unexpected, and insanely _brutal_, car accident. Oh sure, the conditions were right. It was winter and the roads were icy. What was unexpected was the tractor-trailer which spun out of control, knocking mom’s car off the road. Then the massive tractor-trailer slid over the top of her vehicle, crushing it like an aluminum can. Ome never admitted to this but she shuddered to think about mom’s final moments. They couldn’t have been peaceful. Her ruminations of savage finality spun out of control from there as her macabre imagination filled in the rest of the gaps. It was never easy to come to terms with the fact that mom was left victim to the impulse of fate and bad weather. The fact that she died in the midst of mechanical wreckage left Ome wide awake at night, analyzing the gruesome missing pieces. Fantasizing about the crash over and over gave her a delusional sense of control – like she was _there_, watching. But just as it was in her dreams, she couldn’t do a fucking thing.

Mom was the first to go. Dad, however, had been sick for a long time. He, unlike Ome, _was_ a smoker. Addicted. And the cigarettes weren’t addicted to him. He was most certainly addicted to them. Dad’s inevitable lung cancer had been an uphill battle for over four years. When news of mom’s death reached him, it seemed the grief weakened his body even more, allowing the cancer to completely take over. It happens. Ome couldn’t recall her final conversation with him before he died, but she remembered a few interactions that led up to it. As death pulled closer to dad, his thoughts dwelled more and more on his ex-wife. Regret drifted in and out of his voice each time he mentioned mom to Ome. She pitied him and wished he’d put her out of his mind. But he longed for his wife, in spite of their past differences. _Differences_ had become irrelevant. The absolution of mom’s inexistence – the inarguable fact that dad _would never see her again_ – it gnawed at him like a parasite.

“Do you know the last thing I said to her?” he asked. Ome remembered this conversation, and how he dejectedly reached across his hospital bed, searching for his daughter’s hand. His voice cracked under the restraint of ailment. Ome wished he’d _just give it a rest_. This shit was _killing_ him. But the truth was that dad’s lungs were nearly paralyzed, and despite the fleeting pain between lapses of morphine, too often he pushed himself against the margins of his illness. Twice, he’d begged the question. “Do you? _Do you know_?”

Ome shook her head. Mom never shared things like that.

“I told her to go to hell,” he muttered. Frowning, dad shut his eyes. A single tear jumped down his cheek, landing on the sheets.

She squeezed his hand.

* * *

Strolling through the house, Ome picked up scattered clothing and dishes. She grabbed the duster and dusted as she walked. As she neared the kitchen, dropping off the dirty dishes, she pushed a button on a radio attached to the wall. Every now and then she tuned into a classical station. Luckily for her, it was “Mozart Hour” on 99.1 FM. She loved Mozart. He was the perfect thing for when the house felt too quiet. She needed something energetic and uplifting – something to fill that mute, lonely void in the air. Mute, she thought. _My life is mute. _Shaking the miserable notion, she scraped crusted food from a dirty dish.

Most of the time Ome’s only perceptible companion was the rise and fall of an instrument, or the honeyed babbling of one disc jockey or another. That nurse – from earlier – had been the first person she’d spoken to in over a week. _A week_, she thought. _A whole week? Did I even talk at all? To myself?_ She shuddered. Measuring the heights to which her neurosis could reach wasn’t advisable. But now Mozart was here, chatting with her from beyond the grave, telling stories of promiscuous noblemen, romantic youths, and the slow grip of madness. She continued cleaning as her ears hung on every chord. The dead composer proved an enjoyable, albeit stunted, companion. At times, Ome wondered if he lived inside her wall – no radio waves – just his bloodless corpse pumping sounds into the static framework of her life.

Such were the thoughts of a frightened and lonesome woman.

* * *

As Ome made her way around the kitchen, she noticed a can of pepper spray sitting on the counter. “Damn it,” she grumbled, snatching it up. She glared at the can for several seconds. Knowing better than to leave the house unprotected, she forgot to take it before leaving for the doctor. How could she have left it on the kitchen counter? How _stupid_. Ome shoved the can into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt, as if to make up for lost time.

Setting down the duster, she wiped the counter with a rag and collected stray dishes she was too lazy to clean the previous day. Placing the dirty items in the dishwasher, Ome closed it, turning the dial until the machine made a _click_. The dishwasher rumbled obediently. She grabbed the duster, exited the kitchen, and headed down the hallway. Stopping in front of a mirror mounted against the wall, she realized it had been a long time since she wore makeup. Ome hadn’t gone anywhere special, but regardless, she made sure to do herself up for the doctor’s office. Call it a feeling of self-consciousness over the fact that she never left the damn house. She didn’t want people to take one look at her and _know_. In the mirror, Ome turned her thin body from side to side, then tucked her black hair behind her ears.

“I look like shit,” she mumbled.

High self esteem was a rare commodity. Did the rest of the world lack compassion for her “problem” or was she too afraid to test their understanding? On the outside, Ome appeared terribly normal – _average_. No one suspected anything about her. The deaths of her parents weren’t written across her face. Nor were any other callous life lessons she collided with over the years. No one looked at Ome and saw the attack. The subtle loss of such a tiny body part went unnoticed. It was funny, she decided. And still, not a _haha _funny. It was _funny_ how she resented the insignificance of her injury. Had the perpetrator taken her arm, her eye, or more – then maybe she would have received the attention she needed. In truth, Ome felt like a rape victim. Her scars draped across her on the inside. No one could see them. Why was it that _pain_ felt more _painful_ when it was invisible? Too many times eyes passed right over her, blind to her hidden catastrophes. It was just another reason to stay in the house. She couldn’t handle the obliviousness of others. The sting of feeling lonely in a crowd was as overwhelming as the crowd itself.

Ome sighed, still gawking in the mirror. Scolding herself, she huffed, “You just need self confidence.” But the more confidence she sought, the less fruitful the endeavor. It was about as likely as growing her finger back. Where would this _confidence _come from? Was it to appear in a puff of magic? Rise from the dead? Jump down the chimney? Gods and Santas and elves and angels? Empty revelations. The worldwide, hefty belief in miracles robbed Ome of the visceral reality that her problems would not be solved _miraculously_. It was an insipid delusion that a supernatural force could simply _hand_ her the self confidence that was never bred into her. A lifetime of anger, panic, self-loathing, and fear was cumbersome. She knew that. Yet, it was also comfortable. _Familiar_. Each setback worked its way into the fabric of her being, no longer an affliction to cure, but simply an indestructible personality trait.

* * *

Ome turned away from the mirror, continuing her routine cleanup. She swatted the duster along the wall shelves, then around the baseboards and dirty cracks that collected filth. Soon she worked her way to the basement door, then stopped. She didn’t care much for the basement. But Ome knew it was filthy. Yes, it needed to be cleaned. But she rarely went down there. As a child, she avoided it at all costs. According to one, skinny, little dark haired girl, _monsters_ lived down there. Black things in the dark with distorted faces. They had mouths lined with sharp teeth, drooling in the deep, cold silence. When young Ome had to descend those stairs, she _knew_ they’d hear the sound of her tiny feet. And as she stepped down from one stair to the next, the monsters would cock their deformed heads between the shadows, opening their mouths wide like splintery orifices. Their gnarled, knobby appendages would reach for little Ome. And all the while, she’d scream as they pulled her through the slats of the stairs, chewing her up from her legs to her head!

“C’mon,” she said. “You’re not a kid anymore.” The basement really _did_ need cleaning. The fact that mold began to grow posed a real problem to her allergies. So, she gathered up spray and sponges, piling each into a bucket. Down the stairs there was a neglected faucet, waiting for someone to give it attention. Ome flipped a switch to her right, carefully balancing her cleaning supplies. The basement lit up, revealing nothing more than stacks of boxes. Descending the stairs, she told her inner child to shut the hell up. There were no monsters waiting to pull her through. And so she continued down.

Near the bottom was the empty, unused washer/dryer hookup. For the record, the washer and dryer she _actually_ used were located in a separate laundry room on the second level of the house. Therefore, the basement’s washer area stood bare, with nothing more than two square, rusty outlines stained across the concrete floor. The double faucet attached to the wall hadn’t been used in a while.

At the foot of the stairs, Ome set down the bucket, removing the cleaning supplies from inside. Tossing spray bottles, scrub brushes, and sponges to the floor, she lifted the bucket and approached the double faucet. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just dirty and dark.” Speaking aloud helped a little. She turned the faucet and water shot out like a bullet. It hit the bucket hard enough to splash up into her face. Hastily turning the nozzle back, she tried regulating the pressure. The water calmed itself and Ome lowered the bucket to the floor. Waiting for it to fill, she stared at the wall. No mold there yet. Scanning over the rutted concrete, she noticed shapes between the corrugations on the foundation. Amused, she played a little game of _find-the-shape_, much like people do as they watch the clouds. A square, a bird, even something that looked like a mildly disfigured tree – each shape announced itself to her active imagination. Then Ome saw another shape, one that stood apart from the others. She was shocked she hadn’t noticed it right away. It was so _big_. Not only was this shape much bigger than a tree or a bird, but it was seemed _strategically_ outlined by small nodules in the wall’s binding material. The outline was oval, and the inside of it bore a rather palpable representation of a _face_. The thing appeared deliberate rather than coincidental.

Suddenly, Ome heard dripping. Looking down, she realized the bucket had overflowed. Quickly fumbling for the nozzle, she turned it, shutting off the water. Then, her eyes went back to the oval shape on the wall. Disturbed, she panicked a little. Why – _how_ – was there a carving on her basement wall? Did someone sneak in? Ome glanced over her shoulder, eyeballing the small basement windows that peeked just above ground level. None were smashed. She looked back at the wall. Was the picture anything to be frightened of? She didn’t know if she should’ve ignored it or what. _This is just my imagination. _Ome reasoned that staring at a wall for long enough could do this. Her reasoning felt absurd, to say the least. But she wavered at the thought of being frightened by things _within_ her house. It was bad enough she couldn’t venture outside, terrified of the _legitimate_ faces of the world. Now she was to be afraid of a drawing on a wall? _Her_ wall? _To be or not to be afraid_, thought Ome. Afraid of a nurtured impression, hanging innocently from the outgrowth of aged cement. Pathetic. She shook her head. And in that moment of self hate, she had the urge to prove she was not afraid of asinine things. _If I touch it, then I’ll realize it’s not real. It’s just a fucking wall!_

Ome reached out, gently rubbing her fingers along the outline of the face. Grey dust fell as she knocked it away with the pressure of her hand. Over, around, down, then back up – she traced the picture, confronting her discomposure regarding faces in the dark. Still shaking her head, she pulled away her hand. It was just a weird mark on the wall. Nothing more. Leaning forward to lift the bucket, Ome rubbed her thumb and index finger together, instinctively cleaning the grit from them. The basement fell quiet, more quiet than usual. The hum of the hot water heater abruptly stopped. In fact, the subtle noises of every component wired to the house suddenly disappeared. Ome pulled back her hand, no longer reaching for the bucket. She froze as her ears strained to find sound. Something – _anything_ – even the movements of tiny insects beyond the foundation. But there was only silence.

Without warning, a light gleamed across the basement as her feet vibrated. The floor was moving. Something down there rumbled louder than any machine indigenous to her home. Ome looked at her feet and noticed the bucket shaking, spilling water all around. Her shoes were soaked! She instinctively stepped away, keeping an eye on the ground. As the rumbling continued, a bizarre light pierced her peripheral. Looking up, a bright flare erupted from the design of the face. It cracked the cement, forcing the wall open, blinding Ome with a growing brilliance that swallowed the darkness of the basement. It flashed through the lids of her eyes as she squeezed them shut, blazing across her in a radiant wave of brightness. Ome felt a panic attack rising up and she stopped breathing. Grabbing at her chest, she gasped for air. The light swelled all around, and the basement disappeared. Opening one eye, Ome saw nothing but unending luminosity, stretching onward – boundless and chilling. Hyperventilating to the point of exhaustion, a tingling tickled its way up her neck and around her face. She struggled for air just before blacking out.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning air lingered with the residue of night. Daybreak was nearly an hour away when a deer entered the tiny glade. It grazed quietly for some time before its ears abruptly perked at a noise. Realizing it was not alone, the deer bounded back into the safety of the forest.

Artorius pulled his cloak tight, hoping no one beside the deer saw him materialize from thin air. From his heavy pack, he pulled out a torch and a vial. Rolling up his sleeves he held the vial out, pouring several drops on the end of the torch, causing it to ignite.

Artorius gathered his things and proceeded out of the glade, heading up a gradual incline. He moved through the forest; his destination was not far off. He wasn’t afraid of these woods, but his reason for such early morning travel gave him enough to worry about. The trees grew dense for some time, but did not inhibit his trek. Soon, he came upon an area where the vegetation thinned, and before him stood a castle with walls and towers wrapped around the trunks of massive oaks. One could not tell if it were the trees that sprouted up around the castle, or the other way around. Just ahead there was a stone path with shallow steps leading to the palace. As Artorius expected, three guards stood watch by the its western wall. They spotted him.

One guard stepped forward, blocking the intruder from moving any closer to palace grounds. “In the name of Nim, Queen of the Fore District,” he said, “State your name and business, citizen.”

“I must speak with your commanding officer,” replied Artorius.

“Lieutenant Commander Weden is on duty, but he's–”

“No, not Weden,” interrupted Artorius. “I must see the Captain of the Queen’s guard.” His face remained hidden beneath his cloak. Hesitating a moment, he specified, “_Brush_. I’m looking for Brush.”

The head guard squinted with suspicion, “Who are you? Why do you call for Captain Brush?”

“I have something for her.” Artorius removed the pack on his shoulder, and as he did, all three guards reached for their weapons. He slowed his movement, hoping not to upset them further. Opening the pack, he pulled out a bundle – long and wrapped in cloth. He placed the parcel in the grass before them, then stood and backed away.

“What _is_ that?” exclaimed one of the other soldiers.

“Calm yourself, Corporal,” replied the head guard.

“But Silver–” she replied.

“That’s _Lieutenant_ Silver to you, Cat. Remember your place.”

“_Lieutenant_,” Cat corrected herself, “we don’t know who this man is or what he carries. It could be dangerous.”

“Nothing dangerous, I promise,” replied Artorius. “But your Captain has personally requested it – and she has personally requested _me_. Will you bring her?”

Unsure of how else to proceed, Lieutenant Silver nodded. “I’ll inform Brush. You’ll step no closer to these walls until I return.”

Artorius nodded.

Cat and the other soldier, Corporal Barnabus, looked at one another nervously.

* * *

Silver entered the palace door, heading straight for the barracks. Brush was most assuredly asleep. He grimaced at the idea of waking a superior that outranked the superior _directly_ above him. And not just any superior – the Captain of the guard! Ignoring his nerves, Silver pressed on, unsure if the stranger deserved the Captain’s audience. Regardless, the only way to know was to bring the matter directly to her.

He moved through the barracks, quietly. Soldiers stirred in their bunks, not yet ready to wake. In several hours each bunk would be empty. Every man and woman would be armed to the teeth, carrying out their daily tasks. But for now, Silver thought better than to disturb them. _Best let sleeping soldiers lie – lest you get a dagger to the eye._

He made his way to Brush's quarters, slowing to her door, then hesitated one last time before requesting the Captain. Silver knocked quietly. He heard movement from inside the room. "Captain?” he called gently. “It’s Lieutenant Silver. Someone is here to see you."

From behind the door there was the muffled sound of a tired voice. “Who is it?”

“He wouldn't say. He has something to give you.”

“I’ll be out in a moment.” Brush rolled out of bed and dressed herself casually. Before heading out the door, she grabbed her sword and strapped it to her waist. Outside her quarters, Silver waited. They walked quietly through the barracks to the outer castle wall.

“You didn’t recognize him?” Brush asked in mid-yawn. The Captain wearily stretched her arms above her head.

“He didn’t show his face.”

“And he’s alone?”

“As far as we can tell.”

Brush grew annoyed. She suspected the identity of her early morning visitor, an individual who irritated her to no end. _Spring, _she thought, _this is not like you. If you wanted to meet with me, why must it be so early? And why the hell would you cause such commotion?_

As they rounded the west entrance and stepped outside, Brush saw Corporals Cat and Barnabus, blades drawn, confused and bickering.

“What happened?” Brush demanded. “Where’s Spring?”

“Spring?” Barnabus shook his head. “It wasn’t Captain Spring.”

“What do you mean? Who was it, then? Where’d he go?” Angry, Brush drew her sword, looking around for the intruder.

Barnabus stammered, “He left! Vanished! As soon as we heard you coming, he disappeared in a rush of smoke!”

Silver interjected, “And the parcel?”

“Still here, look!” Cat pointed to the object on the ground. “I guess he wanted to make sure it got to _you_, Captain Brush.”

Brush approached the delivery neatly placed in the grass. It was tightly wrapped, unmoved from where the stranger had set it down. She removed the bindings slowly as the guards monitored the trees in the distance, searching for the mysterious visitor. Shocked, Brush recognized the object at once. She hastily wrapped it back up, taking care not to reveal it to the others.

Stepping back, Brush commanded the guards not to go near it, and scanned the horizon for signs of the courier. Satisfied that the cloaked stranger was gone, she ordered the guards to return to their posts. Leaning back over the parcel and lifting its hefty weight to her chest, the Captain returned to the castle.

* * *

Brush hurried through the barracks, hoping no one required her attention. The halls were quiet, but stirring. Most of the soldiers had already risen, dressing themselves for the day ahead. Some left to begin duty, while others returned from night watch, eager to rest.

Brush returned to her bedchamber without incident and locked the door behind her. She knew she wouldn't have long before the steady influx of palace military officials requested her signatures on the day's duty rosters and the night's security inspections. If Brush wanted to have a closer look at her gift, she would have to do it now.

The heft of the object was incredible. Something about its design suggested it should feel lighter, but even Brush, Captain of the Queen’s guard, struggled under its weight.

_This couldn't have been intended for combat…_

Brush laid the bundle on her bed and delicately unwrapped it. The article within the binding looked just as she remembered it from years before. Impressive and frightening.

_The Sword_, she thought. _This is it. –Grehm!_

The blade glimmered unscratched in the dim candlelight. The hilt was ornately decorated, archaic, evoking images of her kingdom’s ancestry. Dozens of thoughts raced through Brush's head as she sat back and stared at the Sword. She had no doubt regarding who had delivered it to her; that much was clear. Brush began to speculate reasons as to why the owner delivered it at all: a trick, a warning, a threat? No. His message was clear.

_He means to avoid war–_

A knock at the door jolted Brush from her thoughts. She wrapped the Sword tightly and placed it under her bed. “Just a moment!” Composing herself, she took a deep breath and approached the door, giving its handle a tug.

There stood Lieutenant Commander Weden, ready with his morning reports. Like every morning, Weden barged into her quarters, detailing drill lists and agendas, without so much as a glance at his Captain. He hadn’t even noticed that Brush was still half-dressed. As the Lieutenant Commander droned on, Brush didn’t hear a word. She stared vacantly, her mind fixed on thoughts of Artorius and the weapon stored beneath her bed.

Weden finally looked up from his report, startled to find Brush still in her nightgown. He awkwardly cleared his throat and diverted his eyes. Ignoring the sight, the Lieutenant Commander gave an apology, insisting he was only interested in his Captain’s feedback – not her fashion. As he stumbled over the rest of his report, Weden realized Brush just stared off like a bored child. “–Captain?”

“Lieutenant?” she replied, snapping back to reality.

“I said does this meet your approval?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, returning to the task at hand. “That’s fine.”

At that moment, a young soldier ran through the hall, craning his neck frantically. Stopping near her chambers, he spotted Brush and yelled, “Captain! Captain Brush!”

“What? What is it?” she replied.

“The Queen…” the soldier wheezed, out of breath.

Weden crossed his arms, generally impatient with newer recruits. “Well spit it out,” he said. “Is she all right?”

“Yes,” the soldier panted. “She wants breakfast.”

“Of course she does.” Brush grimaced. “I should get dressed.” She looked at Weden and gestured to the door. “If you please…”

Weden nodded, exiting her chamber. Brush closed the door and scowled. As she lamented the idea of being the Queen’s personal servant, any thought of the Sword immediately left the Captain’s mind.

* * *

If the Queen wanted sugar pods for breakfast, then Brush saw to it. This morning, she specifically requested sugar pods. Brush was elated to see the Queen had an appetite once again, but inconvenienced by her timing. How long had it been since her majesty sat down and had a full meal? Queen Nim would nibble here and there, but in reality, sadness swelled in her belly. It choked her appetite and drained her energy. She carried on that way for years.

But not this morning. Brush hurried down the main corridor of the palace, twisting and turning through smaller, neighboring corridors. She reached a short staircase that descended to a swinging door. _Must hurry to the kitchen!_ Brush hustled down the steps.

“Sugar pods!” yelled the Captain, bursting through the door. She startled the kitchen staff. One cook dropped a ladle, then cursed. Meanwhile, Brush pointed out two chefs who stood watch over bubbling soup and added, “I’m ordering the two of you off your asses to go fetch some sugar pods. Your Queen is hungry this morning!”

The cooks rolled their eyes, lazily moving about. “But the sun isn't even up!” one of them whined.

“Take some candles,” advised the Captain.

The two groaned, gathering items needed for trudging through the filthy woods in search of _sugar pods_. “Of all the!” They grumbled and complained, crumpling the dish towels that hung over their shoulders, then slamming them against the countertop.

Unimpressed, Brush exited the kitchen, leaving the door to swing wildly behind her.

* * *

Nim, the Queen with the poor timing and inconvenient food requests, sat quietly at her drawing table. Still in her chambers, she wasn’t ready to put the heavy crown on her head and greet the palace. That crown was more than a headpiece. It was a full, decorated mask with a golden fan that stretched high above her skull. It was heavy, often times rubbing the skin raw and red. _It weighs as heavy as my heart, _thought Nim. She sighed. Then her chamber door opened, and the Queen grew anxious for a moment, hoping no one important saw her in such an informal display. In walked Brush. Relieved, Nim relaxed her posture.

The Captain bowed her head. A lock of green hair fell across her face. She instinctively swept it back behind her ear. “Sugar pods are on their way.”

Nim smiled. “I know it’s a silly request. For some reason I crave them today.”

“That’s good,” noted Brush. “Craving food is much better than going without it.”

Nim nodded.

Turning, Brush pointed at the Queen’s window. “Your candle – it’s still lit. Are you returning to bed?”

Nim glanced at the window and shook her head. “No, I just forgot about it. Blow it out for me.”

Nodding, Brush walked over to the large window near Nim’s wide, resplendent bed. She bent forward and blew out a candle that rested on the sill. “Please keep me informed if the candle should ever run low. I can stock you up on more.”

“I’m not worried about it,” said Nim.

“But–”

“It’s fine.”

“Alright then.” Frowning, Brush turned to exit the Queen’s room. Clearly her majesty wanted to be left alone this morning. As she neared the chamber door, Nim spoke up.

“Brush…”

The Captain paused, gripping the door in mid-stride.

“I am _not_ afraid of them.”

* * *

One of the two cooks tromping through the woods, searching for _sugar pods_, managed to step in very deep, thick mud. “Damn it!” cried Aba. It was like sludge, caked across his white kitchen shoes. “Do the damn things even _grow_ this time of year?” Irritated, he lifted his foot, scraping the mud against a tree trunk.

“In the _Fore_ district?” asked Corm, the other cook. He nodded. “Yes.”

Furrowing his brow, Aba groaned. He moved away from the tree, catching up with his friend. “How did _we_ get stuck with this task? Why aren’t the _others_ out here?”

“Because we get the shit end of the stick, Aba. You know that. We’re soup grunts. Face it.”

Pissed, Aba swiped his muddied foot to the left, kicking a stone. “We aren’t going to find _any_ sugar pods!”

“Calm down,” said Corm. “We’ll probably find _some_. But once we get them back to the palace, cook them up, and serve them to the Queen – she won’t be hungry.”

“What about the Wheel district?” Aba asked, frowning. “Do they grow _there_?”

Corm paused a moment, considering his friend’s question. Removing his chef’s hat, he ran his fingers through his short, green hair. “I assume not. _Nothing_ grows there. Everything’s mechanical, right?”

Aba nodded. “I think so. But how the hell would I know? We can’t _go_ there!”

“True.”

The cooks walked a bit farther, pausing every minute to pull back foliage, checking for the teensiest sign of sugar pods. No luck.

“Brush sure is high strung this morning,” said Corm.

Aba nodded. “She’s a pain in the ass.”

“At times. She means well, though.”

“Yeah,” said Aba. “But I don’t like it. She wants the Queen to be happy, but that just isn’t going to happen. She hasn’t been happy in over a decade! And between Nim’s laziness, our quarrel with Wheel – AND ALL THESE DAMN CREATURES – no one’s happy!”

“I’m fairly happy,” Corm smiled.

“Shut up.”

There was a noise in the distance – a loud rustling. It sounded as though something rolled and tumbled through the woods, then began shifting around through the crunchy brambles. The cooks glanced at one another with curiosity, masking the slightest hint of dread.

“Did you hear that?” asked Corm.

Aba pointed off to the west. “I think it came from over there.”

Corm pressed his weight against a large tree, leaned forward, and motioned for Aba to follow his lead. “Hide behind this fern.”

Aba nodded, trailing behind. “Over here?”

“Ssh!” Corm pulled back the fern’s wide leaves – something moved in the distance. It appeared bigger than most small animals, but it was tough to get a good look.

“Be careful,” Aba warned. “Could be a troll.”

Corm glared at his friend, rolled his eyes, and said, “You think _everything_ is a troll. This thing isn’t big enough.”

“Baby troll.”

“Ssh!”

The figure squirmed and rolled, moaning quietly. Even at a distance, the cooks could make out general shapes of arms, legs, and a head.

“Not a Sleeper,” said Corm, squinting hard into its direction.

“No?” asked Aba.

“I think it’s a person. But–”

“–But what?”

“But with _black_ hair?” Corm squinted, doubting his own eyes.

“I don’t trust it.” Aba shook his head. He tugged at Corm’s white chef jacket. “Let’s go!”

Suddenly the figure began to stir. The two men froze in terror, having little idea as to who – or _what_ – they stumbled upon. They thought it best to remain hidden, watching the unusual creature from a distance.


	3. Chapter 3

Ome’s head pulsed with the nimble rush of blood. Adrenaline soared through her insides like a jet engine of shock and trauma, shaking her to the very core. She felt dizzy and her arms were cold. Although the air around her wasn’t particularly chilly, an uninvited draft snuck beneath her clothing. Confused, she inspected her arms, realizing they were partially bare. The sleeves of her hooded sweatshirt were torn at the seams. To make matters worse, the knees of her jeans were caked with thick, sludgy mud. Disgusted and frustrated, Ome struggled to regain her composure, realizing her hair was covered with flakes of dirty, broken leaves. Unable recall _why_ she was outdoors, she reasoned she must have tumbled down a hill and landed in the woods behind her house. Until she looked around – there was no hill.

The last thing Ome remembered was the sensation of falling. Pure weightlessness was a better description, but her mind interpreted it as _falling_. She wondered if she fell out of a tree, though Ome couldn’t fathom as to _why_ she’d ever climb a tree to begin with. In fact, the trees surrounding her were so inconceivably tall, that their branches reached heights she’d _never_ attempt to mount! Mulling over the nature of her whereabouts like a lost child, Ome then wondered what time it was. To her disappointment, the canopy of trees overhead was so thick that she could only, _barely_, see the sun. From what sliver of it she _could_ see – it appeared to be rising.

As her senses grew clearer, she stood up, brushing her pants free of debris. She stopped, realizing her sticky, muddy sleeves only made them _worse_. Ome reached to her opposite shoulder, fiddling with the sleeve’s broken seam. Ripped, completely ripped, and covered in long strands of grass and mud clumps. “God damn it!” she griped.

Amidst her anger and confusion, Ome was sad to see her favorite clothing damaged. Regardless, she pulled at her sleeves, one at a time, tearing them completely free of the sweatshirt. Her arms were exposed but it brought unexpected comfort as she realized how humid the air felt. She pulled up her hood, just after removing a dried leaf from her hair, and began to walk. Moving around, she reasoned, might jog her memory. She hadn’t driven out to visit the woods in years, and couldn’t shake the question _why_ she decided to go today, or at all. She just needed to find the road.

Ome managed to walk a number of steps before she saw two men, several yards away, staring at her. Panic set in. She froze, realizing she may have been _taken_ to the woods. Eyeing the men, it appeared they were dressed in white coats, whispering to one another very quickly. Any words Ome might have caught went unheard as her mind suddenly raced for answers, conjuring dozens of unpleasant scenarios.

As the strangers stepped closer, her thumb nervously rubbed the severed tip of her finger. She turned to run, but her legs tingled from poor circulation and Ome fell to her knees. With her back to her pursuers, she began to crawl away like a scrambling mad person. Gasping for air, hyperventilation set in as her shaking joints locked up beneath her. Ome knocked back her hood, rolled to her side like a cat on its back, and screamed for help.

The men came to an abrupt stop, one reaching an arm across the other’s chest to slow their pace. Ome curled up on the ground, shielding her face, convulsing as she cried. The men looked at one another, unsure of what to do. Finally, one stepped forward, maintaining a fair distance, hesitant but candid.

“Excuse me, miss? Are you alright?”

Still hiding her face from her suspected abductors, Ome panted like a wounded animal. Her muscles tensed as she felt the slow, gripping clench of her jaw lock into place. It was panic attack time.

The second man cleared his throat. “He said _excuse me, miss, are you alright_? Can’t you hear us? Hello!”

Lowering her arms, Ome looked up at them. The men didn’t appear to be moving any closer. She wondered if perhaps they _weren’t_ planning to hurt her. They both wore white coats with white hats. Beneath their hats they had dark, green hair. Their eyes were also green but much brighter, flushed with hints of yellow surrounded by a lime hue. Each carried an unlit candlestick. Both sticks poked out from the deep, white pockets along the fronts of their coats.

“Where am I?” panted Ome, snapping her stubborn jaw open.

“You’re in the Clip Woods, just on the edge of the Fore district,” replied the first man.

Sniffing uncontrollably as cold, wet mucus trickled from her nose, Ome saw trees and rocks covered in flowerless plants, stretching far into the mountainous, wooded horizon. She sniffed again, wiping her nose with a naked arm. No buildings in sight.

“I don’t know Clip Woods,” she choked. “Is it near Castlerock?”

The two strangers looked at one another and shrugged. “Never heard of Castlerock!” snapped the second man. “So you’re _probably_ not near it.”

As Ome stood, her stomach spun like a wheel, and storm clouds of blood swooshed to her head, invading her vision with blobs and blurs. She stumbled a bit, and the first man reached out, grabbing her by the arm.

“Whoa there, take it easy,” he cautioned.

“Don’t touch me!” Ome recoiled, wrenching away from his grip. “Just stay away from me!” Before she could say or do more, she stumbled and tripped over a thick branch, falling back into the mud. Ome cried and rolled around frantically, repeating the question, “_What’s happening?!_” in between sobs. The men looked at one another, wide-eyed and utterly at a loss for words.

“My name is Corm,” said the first man, trying to normalize the unpleasant situation. “And this is Aba.” He pointed to the second man who stood by, sporting an irritated demeanor. “Who are you?”

Ome stood, stumbling around worse than before. Impulsively, Corm reached for her again. Bewildered and disoriented, Ome desperately grappled for his hands. He steadied her for some time, waiting for her to find solid footing once again. Eventually she let go, standing well enough on her own.

“Are you in trouble?” asked Corm. “Where’d you even _come_ from?”

“I was cleaning my basement!” yelled Ome.

“Calm down!” yelled Aba, matching her volume. Fed up, he threw both hands into the air.

Ome breathed. “Sorry,” she said between gasps. Her tone softened. “I – I was cleaning my basement. That’s all.”

“That’s well and good.” Corm nodded. “Nice to have a clean home. But _where_ did you come from?”

“I – I,” Ome stammered. The ridiculousness of the situation drove her back into the arms of frustration. “I _came_ from my home!”

Aba gave Ome a serious look.

“I came from my home,” she repeated more calmly. “I was _just_ inside of my house.”

“Ok. We’re getting somewhere at least,” said Corm. “_Where’s_ your house?”

“I – I,” repeated Ome, unable to answer.

“Were you kidnapped?” he suggested.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you even know your _name_?” added Aba, crossing his arms. “_Who_ are you?”

“My name’s Ome.” She paused, her eyes searching the area. Looking back at the strangers, she added, “I live off Tower Main.”

Corm and Aba stared at her blankly.

“You know,” Ome gestured with a thumb pointing back over her shoulder. “It’s in that one neighborhood – the big brick sign says _Oakwood_.”

“I’ve never heard of the Oak Woods either!” replied Aba.

“No,” argued Ome. “It’s not the _woods_. It’s that neighborhood – Oakwood – literally three minutes from the highway.” She scanned their faces for a hint of recognition. “Highway 80?”

Aba and Corm stared at Ome, vacantly.

“They run through the county–” she added.

“Never heard of it!” Aba grimaced, intent on ending the discussion. Then he tugged at Corm’s jacket, pulling him away from the bizarre woman. “Excuse us.” Yanking Corm off into the distance, leading him far from earshot, Aba whispered, “She’s mad! Maybe a witch! Or working for the Wheel district! Or – OR BOTH!”

Corm twisted his sleeve from Aba’s grip and shushed him. His friend’s whispers weren’t all that _quiet_. Then he peeked back at Ome, who stood helpless, digging the toe of her shoe around in the dead leaves. Corm nodded. “Either way she’s far from where she needs to be.”

“What do we do?” asked Aba. Mimicking Corm, he peeked over at Ome as well.

“The Captain needs to see her. _This_ is way out of our hands.”

“Should we bring her to the palace? Would that be wise?” Aba frowned.

“Would it be wise to let her _go_?” Corm huffed, crossing his arms. “Maybe she was on her way to _plan_ something. To do something _worse_. Maybe _we_ intercepted her, and we’ve ruined her plans.”

Aba nodded. “Ahhh! Good thinking.” He beamed. “Good for us! We could be heroes!”

Rolling his eyes, Corm skeptically raised his hand. “Let’s not go that far.” Then the two walked back toward Ome, hoping she’d agree to come willingly.

“Follow us back,” ordered Corm. “We can’t leave you here.”

“I just want to go home.” Ome sniffed, still digging her foot through the brush.

“There aren’t any homes or buildings near here!” Aba argued. “You’ll be going to see the Captain of the guard. She’ll know what to do with _you_!”

Corm smacked Aba in the chest. “Don’t say that,” he growled under his breath.

Aba returned the smack, hitting Corm in _his_ chest. “Ass!” he loudly whispered. “Don’t hit me!”

Corm grabbed Aba’s jacket and pulled him closer. “If she’s a criminal hell-bent on avoiding capture, she could _kill_ us. Don’t tell her we’re taking her straight to the authorities.”

Confused by their behavior, Ome furrowed her brow, tilting her head with a squint of puzzlement. The men whispered quickly, their voices rushed and indecipherable. Their hands childishly tugged, smacked, and pulled at one another as they bickered.

“Excuse me!” yelled Ome.

Corm and Aba stopped, snapping their heads into her direction. Frozen in the midst of a fight, one cook gripped the other’s jacket and vice versa. They slowly released one another, readjusting the position of their hats, and then straightened out the rest of their attire.

“Look – it’s totally fine. I’ll go,” she said, obliging their demand. “If that’s my only choice, then let’s go. I just need to get insidesomewhere. Anywhere.”

“Did you hear that?” Aba pressed himself against Corm and madly whispered right into his ear. “She’s trying to _get_ _inside_! An infiltrator!”

“Shut,” Corm pushed Aba off of him, “up.”

Indignant, Aba grumbled and straightened his jacket for umpteenth time. Clearing his throat he nodded in agreement, albeit bitterly. Then he and Corm turned back the way they came, instructing Ome to follow. “Well,” huffed Aba, trudging through the mud, “so much for those stupid sugar pods!”

* * *

“What a mess,” said Weden. He ordered three Corporals to carry away Cinny Bark’s lifeless husband. They awkwardly lifted the corpse from the bed, lugging it through the bedroom door. Meanwhile, Cinny remained collapsed on the floor screaming in horror. She shrieked at the sight of Mul, her husband. His chest cavity had been smashed apart, torn open like a piece of soft fruit. His heart was ripped from a web of fat tissue behind fragments of broken ribs, and his surrounding skin hung in bloody flaps of varying thicknesses. Furthermore, Mul’s face had been crushed and half-eaten, leaving Cinny’s husband virtually unrecognizable. Earlier, when Cinny arrived home and found Mul left the way he was, she vomited somewhere in the corner of the house, repulsed and petrified. The horrific thing left behind in their room wasn’t her husband any longer, but a “_defecation of evil”_ – or so she had cried out.

The soldiers tried to wrap a sheet around Mul, but as they lifted him it fell, revealing the mutilation of his body. Behind them, the bedroom stood out of focus, blurry with sunshine. Its pale wooden walls were spattered and streaked with gore. Cinny shrieked again, covering her head with both hands, rocking back and forth on the cold, wooden floor.

“This whole thing…” muttered Weden. “What a damn mess.” As a fourth Corporal approached, Weden turned and asked, “Where’s the Captain?”

“She should be here any second,” answered the Corporal. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes,” answered Weden. “Take the body to Cell.”

“Yes sir.” The Corporal picked up the sheet that had fallen to the floor and disappeared outside with the other soldiers.

Weden turned to Cinny, who remained hysterical, thrashing around the floor, unable to compose herself. He wanted to question her, but it wasn’t likely. Not with her acting like that. Plus, he didn’t have to question a thing. Weden _knew_ what happened.

“Another Sleeper?” asked a voice.

Weden turned. It was Brush. The Corporal wasn’t exaggerating. Brush was known for moving fast and getting things done. The Captain must have dropped everything once she heard of the attack. She walked through the arched doorway of the Barks’ cottage, glanced at Cinny, and poked her head back out the archway, instructing a soldier to remove her.

“Take her to the palace. Find somewhere she can rest. Give her anything she needs.”

“Right away,” nodded the soldier, rushing into the house. He leaned forward to grapple with Cinny and she cried out, weakly fighting against him. The soldier remained firm, but gentle, lifting the frantic woman and carrying her out the door. Brush looked at Weden.

“Yes, another Sleeper,” he answered. “Third one this month.”

She approached closer, walking past him, leading into the bedroom. He followed. Looking around the room, Brush saw the aftermath of the attack washed across the walls and floor, stained deep within the fabric and feathers of the Barks’ bed. Craning her neck, the Captain scanned the walls for a window. There was one at the far end of the room – small, but not small _enough_. A candle lay on the floor, beneath its sill.

“They’re getting clever,” observed Brush, kicking the candle with suspicion.

“How do you mean?” asked Weden. “The candle probably wasn’t lit.”

“I disagree. The candle _was_ lit.”

“Captain?”

“It was – I’d put my wages on it.” Brush eyed the candle’s dead wick. “Last night we had strong winds. Something tells me the Sleepers know which homes to pick with windows facing the _right_ direction.”

“Think the wind knocked it over, then?”

Brush nodded. “Wind knocked it over, flame went out. Then that Sleeper came right in. Seduced him. Tore him apart.”

“Female?”

“Probably. I know Mul. He wouldn’t have been the target of a male. Some other men, maybe. Not him. Had Cinny been here, perhaps a male would have come, but no, she stayed at her mother’s last night.”

“She was? How’d you get that out of Cinny in the brief seconds you were here? She was in hysterics!”

“Got it out of her mother before I was on my way. She was on her way here as well, but I ordered her to meet Cinny at the palace. That’s how I found out. News travels faster among the people.”

Weden knelt down and picked up the candle, repositioning it back on the window sill. “What do you want to do?” he asked.

“Find it. Kill it. What we usually do.”

“We’ll need Mul’s blood for that, as long as the Sleeper hasn’t attacked another citizen by tonight.”

“Exactly,” agreed Brush. “We need to get the elixir made in the next hour.”

“Good luck with that,” said Weden. “Cell can be a pain in the ass.”

“Don’t I know it?” Laughter bubbled inside of Brush, just before she sighed. Worry dropped across her face, excusing her amusement. “We _need _to get our infantry out by the Yield _tonight_. While Mul’s blood is still fresh in its mouth, we can hunt it down.”

Weden nodded. “And rest easier tomorrow.”

“That’s the plan,” said Brush. She sighed again, this time more heavily.

“Captain – are you alright?”

Brush shook her head. “No. It’s… _her._”

Weden lifted his chin and closed his eyes, knowing exactly who she meant. “Ahh,” he said. “Her _majesty_.”

“Yes,” nodded Brush. “Her moods change frequently, but they never get better.” She paused. “I’m worried.”

“Well, as Captain of the guard you should protect her. Your worries are warranted.”

“As her oldest friend, I should protect her. As Captain of the guard, I should expect more from our sovereign. She’s our _leader_, and in a time of impending war. But I sense that she’s…” Brush trailed off, unable to bring herself to the conclusion.

“She’s what?”

“Giving up.”

“Giving up?”

Brush looked down at the candle resting on the window sill. She reached out, picked it up, and stared at it, almost trancelike. Weden watched her, unable to understand exactly what she thought in that moment. Then the Captain placed the candle back in its holder. She turned around, focusing uneasily on the blood that morbidly redefined the Barks’ bedroom. Brush’s eyes studied the appalling sight. Then she dropped her head and spoke quietly as if she spoke only to herself. “How long will it be until _this_ happens to our Queen?”

* * *

Ome followed Corm and Aba through the woods until the trees thinned, revealing a road. The path reminded her of cobblestone. Smooth, cracked bricks were arranged unevenly for what seemed like miles. Green spikes of grass, and other invasive plants, sprouted up between the stones. She assumed the road hadn’t had much use. But as they walked, the weeds became less abundant and those fractured stones gradually lost their cracks, appearing newer as if they’d been replaced. Spotting a hint of large structures far off in the distance, Ome recognized the familiar silhouettes of domestic rooftops. They were nearing civilization.

Following several paces behind the men, Ome felt uncomfortable with the silence, which would have been less agonizing if her panic weren’t so heightened. “So, uh, what’s with the dye jobs?” She pointed to their heads, nervously attempting conversation. Staring at the backs of their green hair for so long made it nearly impossible _not_ to mention.

Without slowing, Corm and Aba turned to one another. Aba’s eyes grew wide, as if to indicate concern to his partner. Corm simply grimaced, cleared his throat, and answered, “Well, we wondered the same about you. What’s with the _black_?”

“Excuse me?” Ome reached for a strand of hair dangling near her eyes. “Are you saying I color my hair? It’s naturally black, thanks.” Furrowing her brow, she frowned, then shrugged with an awkward sigh. “Sorry, I just wondered why you _both_ dyed your hair green – that’s all.”

“_Dyed_?” asked Aba.

“We’re Yoth,” answered Corm.

“Yoth? What’s that, a social club? Like the Shriners?” Since embarking upon the cobblestone path and spying the buildings off in the distance, Ome assumed she must be right outside of a small, rural town. And though she was unsure as to how this all began, she hoped to be only half an hour away from calling a cab.

Aba spoke over his shoulder, “We’ve never heard of _Shriners_! Are they from the Southlands?”

“I don’t know,” Ome replied. “Just wondering. You have the green hair and those outfits. You look like you belong to a club.” Pausing, she muttered under her breath, “Or a cult.”

“We’re Queen Nim’s personal chefs,” Corm insisted in a dry, unimpressed tone. “And like yours, our hair is _naturally_ the color that you see. And you’ll see many _more_ green-haired Yoth when we arrive at the Fore district palace.” Tired from the day’s affairs, he puffed out an insulted sigh and shook his head.

“Honestly!” cried Aba, mimicking Corm’s reaction. Corm ignored him.

Ome didn’t understand a word of what Corm just said to her. As she walked, her pace slowed, attempting to string the details together. Between the strange green-haired men, the unfamiliar woods, and the mention of Queens and palaces, it dawned on Ome that she was farther away from home than she realized. Regardless, she walked on in silence, conjuring the last thing she remembered before she arrived. Her mind was a little clearer now that she was up and moving about. She was able to recall more details from her experience in the basement. Ome remembered there was _something_ in the darkness – something foreign that she had never seen before. A face. The image of a face was the last thing she saw before blacking out and waking up in this strange place. Naturally, she wondered if it had been a dream, but the bruises and panic felt too real. Rubbing her fingertips together, she remembered a sensation: grit from the wall as it flaked away. _The wall. There was a face etched into the wall. _She had touched it, causing dust to fall. There was a haunting sensation of bumps and grooves beneath her finger as she traced the rough patchwork of concrete. Shaking her head, she stored the memory for a later time.

For now, Ome marched onward behind Corm and Aba, possessed by worry much imbued with confusion. The trail rounded a bend and she began to see details on the structures as they neared. An array of homes was constructed along the edge of the forest. Each house was built from trees and foliage, nested against the very material that gave them shape. Rustic in their design, Ome found them _interesting_. In her case, they weren’t _“stupid-interesting”_, but definitely “_interesting-interesting_”. The two structures closest to her on either side of the road were, in fact, constructed within a tree like two, small forts. A terrace protruded from each, and posted near the front were ironclad guards, armed with bows and arrows. Jutting her chin away from her neck as her wide eyes stared above, Ome whispered, “Now I’m convinced we’re _nowhere_ near my house.”

Beyond the guard posts, houses backed into an umbrella of monstrous trees and ornate greenery. The path in front of the homes was clear, but the landscape tailoring their backsides bloomed with dense vegetation. Giant, glossy leaves hung from bark as black as the soil, and rich flower buds ripe with color sprawled where they could.

“Is this your city?” Ome asked. “I’m impressed. They have ordinances in my city where you can’t grow grass over 2 inches, otherwise they fine you.”

“An edict to discourage the growth of… _grass_?” Aba asked, unsure if he heard her correctly.

“Yeah, I pay a guy to do it, though. I don’t mow it myself.” Ome paused, taking a more scrutinizing glance around. “So people live out here?”

“Yes,” answered Corm. “The residents live over in this sector. As we near the palace, we’ll pass the marketplace. Mainly crops and fabrics sold there, but you can find other things.”

Aba nodded in agreement. “Oh yeah! Traded for an Onos there the other week! Best deal ever.”

“A what?” asked Ome.

“Oh honestly! You use it to fish!” explained Aba. “It’s a stick with a line and metal hook!”

“Oh,” said Ome. “You mean… a _fishing rod_.”

Aba shook his head and shrugged, “Whatever you say.”

As Ome passed along the homes, she saw people coming and going from their doorways. As promised, each of them had green hair just like Corm and Aba. Some shades of hair were lighter or darker than others, but all in all the colors were homogenously green. The people seemed to blend into their surroundings. _What are they? _thought Ome. She noticed their skin looked a bit darker than hers, assuming that was a result from working outside. But she wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe they were a different race, but certainly not one she had ever heard of.

As Ome continued to study their appearances, she realized they stared right back at her, confused by _her_ appearance – even hostile. It dawned on her that she must have stuck out like a sore thumb. Between the black, chin-length hair and her pasty skin – she looked like a bonafide porcelain doll. Citizens were much taller and more robust. Compared to them – even compared to their _children_ they snatched by the wrists, ushering away from the “odd drifter” – she was quite small and thin. Ome rubbed her temples, disoriented by the realization. One thing was for certain, she had to find a way home. Perhaps this _Captain_ would be the one to help her. But, Ome’s paranoia got the best of her. She tried to calm herself once her thoughts raced to the possibility that these _Yoth_ may have _other_ plans.

_What if they hurt me? _Ome fought with her suspicions, knowing worry wouldn’t do her a lick of good. She reminded herself to relax, taking deep breaths. Masking fretfulness in this town proved much harder than in the doctor’s office. What Aba and Corm didn’t realize was that Ome fought panic all the way to the palace. Even as they neared the entrance, through very large, timbered doors, she couldn’t help but think: _What the hell am I doing?_ Anxiety swelled from her gut to her nose. Ome teetered on that familiar brink of hysteria. _Fight it. Just fight it. Damn it. Don’t pass out. Don’t freak out. _She chanted a mantra that too often failed, but this time, it seemed to work. Keeping an even head, Ome breathed slowly through her nose, careful not to hyperventilate. The instinct of survival successfully took over.

“This way,” instructed Corm, guiding her through the main foyer of a lush and wooded castle. Approaching a guard, he exchanged several words and then pointed at Ome. The guard did a double-take just before issuing a compliant nod. He walked off into the distance, disappearing around a corridor.

“We’ll I have great news,” smiled Corm. Ome’s eyes lit up. “Turns out the Queen changed her mind. Didn’t want breakfast after all.”

Crossing her arms, Ome sighed. “What about me?”

“Yes, yes. I’ve just informed the staff,” Corm replied, gesturing to the empty spot where the guard stood. “He’s retrieving the Captain now.”

Ome swallowed hard, nodding fretfully with nervous approval.

“Good!” said Aba. “It’s been a long morning. We need to start lunch!”

“Go if you need to,” said Corm. “I’ll wait.”

“Alright,” grinned Aba, relieved his task was over. He waved at Ome, wished her luck, and walked into the direction of a short set of stairs, descending to a swinging kitchen door.

Corm waited patiently. He didn’t say a word as palace officials hustled around them, pausing briefly between errands, inspecting Ome like she was a stray dog. She tried to ignore them. Nothing made her more agitated than people staring at her. While doing so, her hands sought the warmth and comfort of her sweatshirt pockets. _What’s this? _She felt something hard, plastic, and familiar.

The guard returned. He approached Ome and Corm, announcing, “Captain Brush is in the hall, busy at the moment. She said it’s preferable to bring our guest to her. Chef Corm, I’ll escort your friend. You’re dismissed.”

_The pepper spray. _Ome’s eyes popped for a brief moment.

Corm nodded and turned to Ome. “Well,” he said, “Have to get back to the kitchen. Hope things work out for you.” His words weren’t very comforting, and Ome realized the chef was eager to put her out of his life. She sighed as he briskly walked away, abandoning her with the unsmiling guard. The guard nodded to Ome, turned and marched off, assuming she would follow behind. Obediently, she did as expected, gripping the unexpected pepper spray in her pocket.


	4. Chapter 4

“_Wheel stayed fed on what they could, but it wasn’t much, and it wasn’t good.”_

As morning progressed, Queen Nim lost her appetite. She knew Brush would return to escort her to breakfast, and would have to be turned away. Then of course, the Captain would lecture the Queen on staying fed and keeping healthy. Nim would dismiss Brush’s warnings, insisting she didn’t feel well. The Queen knew all too well that was how the conversation would play out. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Brush was the only one Nim allowed to counsel her without reprimand. In fact, for several months now, no one aside from the Captain was even allowed into the Queen’s chamber. That was initially a rule for precautionary measures – especially as whispers of assassination circulated. But after the scare had passed, Nim found herself comfortable with such privacy, mandating that her quarters be permanently off-limit. Off-limit, of course, to everyone but her most trusted friend – Brush.

The Queen went to her drawing table and stretched. She thought today she would do Brush a service by _not_ looking haggard after arriving to the throne room. Most days, Nim couldn’t bring herself out of bed, and for that reason she refused to follow a tight schedule. Fortunately today, because of her fleeting hunger, the Queen had more time to herself before Brush’s later rendezvous.

Nim stared longingly at her drawing table, cluttered with letters she wished to forget. Regrettably for the Queen, she never allowed herself to do so. Like so many mornings, she read the letters over and over, all the while gripping a white amulet in her left hand. That was the usual routine. And for years, the letters piled up in plain sight, consuming Nim with a nostalgia that gnawed at her sentimentality.

Brush often wondered when the Queen would burn those letters, or in the very least put them away. But for some time they remained out in the open. At one point, the older notes were stored in a box, however, in recent years, Nim pulled each of them back _out_. Brush often caught her sitting and brooding over each letter, hopelessly ingratiating upon every word. Brush knew what those words said, and no matter how often she advised the Queen to let them go – let every word go – Nim refused to waver in her bottomless fixation. Brush didn’t understand, and she questioned whether or not the Queen truly wanted peace.

Having indulged her memories enough, Nim slid open the table drawer and returned the amulet to its container. Palace staff would soon wonder if she planned to emerge today, and they’d likely hunt down Brush to confirm Nim’s request for breakfast. The Queen paused a moment after closing her table drawer, then sighed. She considered Brush her closest friend, though used the Captain to phase out her Queenly responsibilities so that she may fall into her moods as they worsened over the years. Though Nim wished it weren’t true, she knew Brush couldn’t help her. Often times the Queen convinced herself otherwise. Perhaps she was a little too reliant on her Captain. And Brush couldn’t be there all the time – Nim _knew_ the truth of that. The Captain had far too many duties to the safety of Fore, giving its lady sovereign her desired privacy.

Nim stood and walked away from the drawing table. She wrapped a long, dark cloak around her white robes, tying off the front and pulling the strings to the side. She placed her crown over her face and head, fastening it with the clips that dug deep into her long, green hair. Her olive eyes sparkled through the holes of the masked crown. Nim checked herself in a large, oval mirror and exited her chamber.

“Majesty,” greeted a smiling servant. Nim returned the greeting with a subtle nod, continuing on her way.

The Queen’s palace was primitive, though elegant. In the Fore district, citizens lived a natural lifestyle, settling among the vegetation of the Clip Woods. The palace took no exception. Within Nim’s home, the supports were made of roots and bark, painted by the organic growth of creeping plants that trailed along the floors, climbing their way to the tallest vault between palace walls. Outside, citizens lived in cottages made from stacked logs. However, the recent development of quakes proved the structures to be weak. Such was an issue the people of Fore begged Nim to address. Quakes were one issue among many. And many of these issues were most often ignored by the Queen. In truth, her disregard cost citizens their lives – their very blood.

Nim tried to put those things out of her mind as she listlessly coasted to the throne room. Taking her seat, she noticed a well-groomed official approach, holding a canon of tasks and demands that ungenerously waited for her. Nim sighed. Typically, her people needed resources, whether due to disaster relief, loss of familial support, or worse. Beyond that, too many requested infantry assistance. Brush could only be in so many places at once, so it was up to Nim to delegate much needed defenses elsewhere. Either a citizen suffered retaliation from rogue terrorists, or torment found its way through different potencies – the Sleepers.

Fore only had so many resources to keep them at bay, unlike the Wheel district. Wheel never had to worry. They had the technology to keep the Sleepers out. Yet they refused to share such wherewithal with Fore. Such was the unfortunate political understanding at the time. And the guilt as to _why_ they kept their technical knowledge to themselves was all too great for Nim. _Her_ hand assisted in stirring _that_ pot, setting the events into motion which led to the split of the kingdom and the birth of the Sleepers. When it came to the Sleepers, the Queen dared not make excuses for their attacks, but too often she dodged every chance to face her responsibilities.

If only Nim knew what _Mer_, the King of Wheel,thought about the origin of the Sleepers. Asking his opinionwas out of the question, but she didn’t have to venture far to guess. Those letters she kept – they were Mer’s. Of course he poured his heart out, page after page, and Nim narcissistically memorized every word, but her pride restrained absolution for the past. She simply did not write him back. Not once. And how long ago was this _past_? According to any star chart, ten years had come and gone, but to Nim it felt like only a blip. Grudges have a way of preserving a rotten moment, keeping the fetid taste of it fresh on the tongue. Over that decade, the Queen’s pride caused her own people to suffer. She couldn’t bring herself to make peace with the King.

But it wasn’t just Nim’s people who suffered. Mer’s citizens endured starvation after Fore blocked Wheel’s food supply those many years ago. Yoth of the Wheel district were able to keep out the Sleepers, but they could not stay fed. They relied on Fore to provide them with nourishment that sprouted from its fertile soil. That was the agreement, yet Nim broke it. In addition, as the King’speople starved, the Queen made repeated attempts to storm his district. He retaliated with metal and fire, able to crush her soldiers with ease. The Clip Woods shook from the assemblage of war machines, rumbling the ground as trees and cottages crashed to their destruction. The quakes. As the machines developed, Nim received word of Mer’s district-wide announcement: the quakes were a sacrifice he was willing to make in the name of _defense_. She remembered the reports pouring in, mentally reciting what the King had said.

“_She waged war!” King Mer broadcasted to his people. “Not I, but the Queen! We had an agreement. She betrayed it. And as we starve she attacks us! We must use our knowledge to defend our homes!”_

Nim heard news of this proclamation and couldn’t help but wonder if Mer’s words were his own. What treachery had been whispered into the King’s ears, she speculated. But such was a fleeting thought for a Queen too emotional to analyze it further. Eventually, war subsided as quickly as it had materialized. Those ten years were tumultuous, but as the decade neared its end, problems had quieted down. Unfortunately, _quiet_ did not accompany _peace._ The two districts were still at odds, just calmly so. The Queen knew that. The King knew that. All Yoth knew that. The war simply fell silent – _too_ silent. The voice of battle teetered on the edge of impending exclamation, but over ten, long years, Fore and Wheel each remained mute.

…And all the while, the heartbroken Queen was determined to linger in her past.

* * *

“We don’t need Cinny Bark’s approval,” explained Brush. Commanding and insistent, her voice snapped through the air with a crisp of arrogance. Weden remained quietly at her side as the palace cleric, Cell, questioned Brush’s urgent demands. All three stood in a wide corridor outside of Cell’s lab. Back inside the lab, Mul’s body was kept for funeral preparations.

Cell spoke impatiently with the Captain, eager to return to his work. “If you want the elixir by tonight, I’ll have to drain Mul’s blood completely. Or, at least, what’s _left_ of it!” Crossing his arms, Cell narrowed his eyes at Brush. “You haven’t _spoken_ to his wife about this?”

Brush shot a glance at Weden, who looked away uncomfortably. Then she glared back at Cell. “Right now, Cinny is _not_ responsive. She’s still in shock over Mul’s death. And understandably so – she won’t speak to Weden about the weather, much less draining her husband’s blood! If that Sleeper attacks someone else before we get to it, then Mul’s blood won’t work. The elixir’s useless. We _need_ to hunt the Sleeper down _before_ it attacks another victim – _before_ it tastes different blood.” The Captain returned Cell’s narrowed expression, bitterly crossing her own arms. “And quite frankly, _cleric_, I don’t _want_ another victim on our hands. Right now, you have _one_ corpse to drain. Let’s not make it two. Got it?”

“Has this ridiculous elixir recipe has even been effective?” asked Cell.

“I’ve seen it work,” Weden chimed in. “I trust it.”

“Alright,” Cell mumbled. “And do you also trust a _criminal’s_ recipe? An exiled one at that…”

Brush scowled. “I warn you, in my presence, don’t speak of him that way. Without his help, we wouldn’t have caught or killed _any_ Sleepers. Artorius is a friend to us.”

“And who _else_ does he consider his friend?” snapped Cell.

Weden stepped forward. “That’s enough,” he commanded.

Brush raised her hand to silence her Lieutenant, the metal of her gauntlet reflected the glow of lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Weden abruptly backed off. As he did so, a guard approached, escorting what appeared to be a strange looking female. She was thin and small, sporting black hair and pale skin. Ignoring her quarrel with the cleric, Brush lowered her hand as the guard moved closer.

“This is our guest – staff found her in the forest earlier this morning,” he reported.

“Thank you, Corporal. You may go,” Brush instructed. With a salute, the guard returned the way he came. Glancing at the peculiar woman, Brush remained silent. Meanwhile, Ome stood nervously, looking around the corridor as if she were lost. She avoided eye contact with the Captain. Concurrently, the cleric decided to retreat back into his lab.

“Cell!” Brush shouted.

He stopped, one foot through the doorway.

“I want that elixir _before_ sundown!”

He nodded.

Turning, Brush glared at the small woman as she shifted her weight uncomfortably, keeping her eyes glued to the floor. “Follow me,” she ordered. Noting the stringency in the Captain’s voice, Ome obeyed.

* * *

Inside the palace, Ome felt she had walked forever, turning corners and slipping through large doorways. Every passage twisted up and down like a series of gnarled, hollow logs. Eventually her path opened up into something more building-like in its architecture. Through a carved archway, Brush led Ome into a giant hall filled with various figures crowded around a single, wooden throne. The throne was located at the end of a wide aisle nested between rows and rows of seats. It was mounted on top of a short, wide stairway, and sitting upon the throne was a woman who wore a broad, fanned crown across her forehead. The crown connected to a mask covering her eyes, nose, and upper lip. Startled by the crowned woman’s appearance, Ome’s chest fluttered and she grew nervous once again. Brush hurried down the aisle, expecting the frail, black haired woman to keep up. Ome hurried behind, unsure of what to do, gripping her can of pepper spray. She thought better of using it on someone as disciplined, not to mention as daunting, as Brush.

Stopping at the foot of the throne, right where the stairs began, the Captain knelt to her Queen, then hastily stood back up. “Your majesty.” Brush gestured to Ome. “She was discovered in the Clip Woods this morning.”

Nim had caught sight of Ome as soon as she entered the hall. Brush’s words fluidly swept past the Queen’s ears as she inspected the woman with stoic contemplation. “You are human,” observed Nim. Neighboring subjects scattered through the hall whispered in response to the Queen’s blunt observation. Even Brush’s eyes popped at Nim’s remark. The Captain scanned her face for an explanation, but found nothing aside from Nim’s usual cold surveillance lurking behind a mask.

“Y-yeah,” answered Ome. “I’m – eh – human alright. Um. Isn’t everyone?”

“We are Yoth,” replied Nim, echoing the words of Corm, albeit in a more wooden tone. The Queen understood Ome’s confusion and added, “This is not your world. You are no longer in the Old World.” Nim paused, waiting for Ome to respond. The thin, black haired human simply reached a hand to her head, looking around dizzily. The Queen continued, “How did you _arrive_ here? What is your name?”

_Not those same questions again. _Ome’s head spun. A wave of heat pulsed from her spine to her neck, and suddenly her hair grew damp with perspiration. “My n-name is – eh – is Ome,” she stammered. Her chest tightened. Breathing heavily, she clapped a hand over her lungs. The hyperventilation continued until her knees buckled and she managed to catch herself, returning to a half-stance. Unable to maintain her posture even halfway, Ome’s knees buckled once again.

“Captain, catch her from falling. Fetch a chair,” ordered Nim. Brush did as commanded, sourly pulling a chair from nearby, scooting it beneath Ome. She lowered herself to its seat. As her breathing slowed, she calmed down. A sensation of embarrassment took over. It was _always_ an embarrassment. But she couldn’t help it. The sudden realization of being farther from home than she originally thought made her throat close up like a shutter lens. Overheated, Ome leaned forward. Swiftly tugging back and forth on the breast of her sweatshirt, she circulated air between the fabric and her skin.

“So she isn’t from Wheel?” Brush asked the Queen.

Not wanting to incite further panic, the Queen ignored Brush’s question. She quieted her tone and asked, “Ome, why don’t you tell us how you came to be here?”

“I’ll tell you what I remember,” explained Ome, “but it doesn’t make any sense.” She retraced her experience in the basement, offering details when pressed to do so, repeatedly sighing that she could not explain _how_ it happened. That didn’t matter to Nim, who listened intently to the human’s story. Unfazed by the details of the incident, the Queen nodded at every word as if she knew what was to come next. Brush, however, was unfamiliar with anyone like this _human_. She was unfamiliar with _other_ worlds. The Captain listened skeptically, her bright green eyes buried beneath the furrowed skin of a doubtful heavy brow.

“Am I – uh – on another planet?” asked Ome.

“No,” answered Nim, “It is more like another reality. This world – _our_ world – is called Lot.”

“She’s lying!” hissed one of the Queen’s followers, pointing at Ome. “This is a trick! She has been sent by Wheel!”

“Silence!” commanded Nim, her voice echoed powerfully against the vaulted, wooden ceiling. “Despite her appearance, she is no denizen of their district. I know of humans. They are _unique_ in their appearance.”

“The Queen is wise!” wheezed an elderly advisor.

“I’m sorry,” said Ome, “Where did he say I was from?”

“Wheel,” answered Brush. “It is a district not far from here. Their people are Yoth like us. But unlike us, they appear rather _gaunt_ – among other things.”

“Not as well fed,” offered a bearded aide. His associates nodded, eagerly murmuring among themselves.

“My people don’t encounter Wheel citizens often,” Nim clarified, “So there are speculations – rumors if you will – about their appearances. And of course, deeper suspicions are attached to that.”

“Well I’m not a Wheel – uh – person,” Ome said, “I don’t belong here.”

“Yet here you are, nonetheless,” remarked the Queen, sitting back in her throne, setting her elbow upon the arm-rest. She inquisitively placed a finger to her chin. “I suppose the immediate question to ask is _why,_ and the polite question to ask is _how do we get you home_?”

Ome stared deep into the empty eyes behind the mask. The Queen’s words were honeyed, but her expression felt chillingly numb. Regardless, she had no answer for either of Nim’s questions. The room began to spin again and her head felt cloudy. Overwhelmed, Ome raised her knees to her chest and sank into the chair.

Ignoring the human’s panic, the Queen’s court began shouting their thoughts on the matter. Nim made no effort to silence them, keeping her eyes locked on the frightened woman curled up in her seat. Only Brush dared not partake in the court’s uproar. She knew, despite a steady exterior, none of this sat well with Nim. But far be it from the Queen of Fore to reveal anxiety around her subjects. Deep down, Brush knew the Queen was alarmed and confused. Glowering at Ome, the Captain decided that the human was nothing more than a prisoner.


	5. Chapter 5

When the Queen’s assembly dismissed, Ome was taken by guards to an undisclosed area of the palace. Per Nim’s request, under no circumstances would the human be permitted to leave unescorted. Additionally, Ome was to have no visitors. The entire city would be curious about her and because the Yoth were such inquisitive people – potential gossip could spread quickly. As soon as she had arrived there was already talk of an outsider welcomed inside the Fore palace. Nim wanted to keep the buzz to a minimum. It was not often they had visitors from other lands – let alone from other worlds. Undoubtedly the question would circulate: was the strange woman with the black hair working for Wheel? In times of war – even wars of colder varieties – no suspicion went unmentioned.

The Queen, however, was convinced this _Ome_ was no infiltrator. Though her advisors and military personnel retained their distrust, they obeyed Nim’s intuition. “She will be protected and cared for during her stay,” the Queen ordered the guards. “She is _not_ our prisoner and she must be sent home.” Her words sounded confident, but truthfully, Nim had little idea as to how to help Ome. And because of such a dilemma, she canceled each of her afternoon obligations in favor of a meeting with her most trusted of officials. As the sun inched higher in the sky, the Queen called for a second assembly. This time only _top_ military staff and civil ministers were invited, in addition to key trusted advisors. At the rise of the southern tower, on a covered terrace, overlooking the entire district, ten of the highest and most influential representatives of Fore took their seats.

There was Kaileaf and Forage, the heads of general service. Their staff was charged with both assisting and monitoring Ome at every hour. Then there was, of course, Captain Brush who chose Weden, the Lieutenant Commander, to accompany her. Beside them sat Deputy Captain Leaf, head of the Fore Garrison and the palace guard. Nim’s political advisors Breach, Hol, and Soar were in attendance, as were the junior and senior civil representatives Sapphire and Coral, respectively, each with his or her own thoughts on what should be done with the human. And at the head of the large, round table sat the Queen, perfect in posture, knowing full well this day would be remembered for many things, but most of all the arrival of Ome.

“This unprecedented visitor comes at a most curious time,” Nim announced. “It is not the first time our land has had a visitor from another world. Her timing will reveal itself to be either convenient or treacherous. But I have not called you here to discuss only the human.” Pausing, she nodded to Brush. “Captain…”

Brush withdrew the bound package delivered earlier that morning and placed it on the table. As she unwrapped its bindings, gasps and sighs trickled from every corner of the terrace. Each of the nine officials immediately recognized the mysterious item – _Grehm_. As Nim gazed upon the Sword, a chill inched along the back of her neck. Struck by a sudden pain in her chest, she realized she wasn’t breathing. At the sight of Grehm, the Queen fell into deep reflection. Every moment of regret and despair attached to the Sword came flooding back to her in an instant memory.

Nim remembered how the Sword was once a threat to her kingdom. And for what? A fleeting love affair and a husband’s petty jealousy? The Queen remembered when the creature appeared. Even King Mer, as powerful as he was, trembled at the sheer size of such a monstrosity. Worse yet, the moment Mer saw who commanded the creature, riding atop it as if it were his trained pet, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Artorius! The King’s loyal friend! To think, the Wizard Artorius, the one they now called _outcast_, was responsible for breaking Mer’s spirit. Somehow, deep in the Queen’s mind, such a thing was far worse than threatening her land. She saw the look of betrayal on her husband’s face that day – and she would never forget it.

Gazing upon the Sword now, Nim could only think of the absolute _nerve_ of that damn Wizard! That Artorius would bundle Grehm as thought it were an unwanted infant. _Spineless sneak_, she thought. Covertly delivering it to Brush without so much as a word of caution. But like one other wild and impulsive cavalier she knew, Nim tried to shrug it off as the strange and often misguided actions of passionate men. Regardless, the Queen would never forgive Artorius for the day he attacked Fore, no matter how many _favors_ he repaid to her kingdom.

“As we can see,” Nim continued, “the human is not the only unexpected guest to arrive at our doors today.”

“Nor is this unwelcome!” exclaimed Coral. “How has such a weapon come to us?”

“It was dropped off early this morning,” Brush explained. “But the guards didn’t see the one who delivered it. Naturally, we assume it was Artorius.” Brush trembled, saying the name aloud.

“This cannot be a coincidence,” warned Breach. “The Sword and the woman both in one day? This is too convenient.”

“Please explain,” urged Nim.

“Pardon my blunt assumption, majesty,” Breach continued, “but the presence of either makes me nervous. We know very little about this weapon, and even less about the human. We should get rid of both immediately!”

“Get _rid_ of the human?” Soar declared.

“Yes, be rid of her,” replied Breach. “And unless we know for certain this sword is _the_ _Sword_, we should get rid of it, too. Has it yet been inspected by the historians?”

Nim was quick to respond, “Not as of yet, but soon. Also, Captain Brush has, on more than one occasion, seen the Sword with her own eyes. She believes it to be real.” Breach appeared unconvinced. The Queen added, “But the royal historians will spend some time examining it. We will _not_ proceed until it has been verified.”

“I agree with Breach,” said Hol. “The Sword makes me nervous as well. I don’t doubt its authenticity, but having it in our possession only makes matters worse. It’s a powerful tool – yes. It may give us an advantage, but how? And are we to use a weapon we swore _against_? A weapon that was nearly used to _destroy _us? How would that make us look?”

Coral scoffed, furrowing his wrinkled brow. “To whom? Are you saying we should be concerned with our image among the Wheel district? That we should care what our enemies think of us?”

“There is something to be said for honoring agreements,” added Soar. “And those _enemies_ were once children of Fore.”

“Artorius has once again done us an injustice,” observed Hol. “He no longer respects the agreement between districts. His _gift_ aggravates what little peace we have left.”

“What should we expect from an outcast?” laughed young Sapphire, whose smile quickly turned to embarrassment as he noticed Brush glaring at him.

“True, this is a conundrum,” said the Queen. The advisors quieted their tones. “On one hand, the Sword could certainly stop all warring with Wheel in a matter of days – we have seen its power. Even the Sleepers might succumb to it. This could be the end of an era of conflict. That would be welcome, yes?”

The advisors nodded and mumbled agreeably.

“But on the other hand,” the Queen continued, “We know the destructive effects of using a weapon capable of widespread devastation. After the schism, Fore and Wheel made an agreement to never again use that type of magic within our borders–”

“–But that was not _long_ after our districts were _one_!” reasoned Coral. “Wheel barely came into being. Times are different now. Wheel is not part of Fore and it never will be.”

“Excuse me,” replied Nim, annoyed that the gruff advisor had cut her off. She cleared her throat and continued. “In spite of your incivility, Coral, perhaps you’re correct. But let us remember this conflict has not yet come to a gruesome head. We’ve yet to revisit full-scale bloodshed. While our soldiers skirmish at the border, and both sides are guilty of sending spies, we do live peacefully without much alarm.”

“Tell that to Cinny Bark,” Weden spoke abruptly.

“Lieutenant?” The Queen acknowledged the soldier. “You have something to say?” She didn’t know the man as well as Brush. Regardless of his outburst, the Queen sensed a commendable determination in his voice.

“Yes,” said Weden. “I know we aren’t _technically_ at war. Conflict, as you say, hasn’t been very taxing. We bury soldiers every month, but not in large numbers. Our army is strong, and Captain Brush’s training regimen keeps us sharp, ready for an onslaught when the day comes.”

“It will come!” cried Sapphire. “We have proof that Wheel is developing war machines! Such horrible constructs!”

“Let him continue,” demanded the Queen.

“Thank you, majesty.” Weden cleared his throat. “Wheel _does_ pose a threat to our soldiers, but the Sleepers take the lives of our citizens. There’s a woman in the town, Cinny Bark. Last night her husband was killed by one such demon. Her life is ruined now, and not because of Wheel. It was because of those _things_. Out _there_. We have no agreement with them. They have no honor or sense. They’re just animals. Violent monsters, seeking blood. And I’m the first one there after it happens. When conflicts with Wheel dissipate and we grow comfortable, Fore forgets there are _other_ threats. Then a Sleeper attacks. Gets our people riled up. Terrorizes us. Makes us _remember_.”

“I disagree,” remarked Sapphire. “Wheel _is_ to blame if our people are murdered by the creatures. Wheel could have helped us against the Sleepers!”

“And at what cost?” argued Weden. “You want protection from the Sleepers? Do you want to starve too?”

“_Starvation_!” laughed Sapphire, dismissively waving his hand.

“Gentlemen,” said the Queen, firmly interrupting their debate. Weden and Sapphire quieted down, glancing away from one another. Weden crossed his arms and flashed his Captain a sour look. Brush subtly nodded to her Lieutenant in agreement.

“Weden,” said Nim, “back to your original statement – what do you propose?”

Weden turned his attention back to the Queen, uncrossing his arms. “I’m wondering if Artorius gave us the Sword as a way to protect ourselves, not just from Wheel, but from the Sleepers. We don’t know what the future holds. For the sake of our people, Grehm might come in handy.”

“Weden’s right,” said Brush, advocating on behalf of her Lieutenant. “Grehm, if nothing else, gives us an edge should we need it.” She narrowed her eyes at Sapphire. “All political speculation aside, let’s consider the needs of the people _first_, shall we?”

“Then Brush, Grehm will remain with you,” the Queen declared. “Artorius seems to be the only one able to activate the Sword appropriately. We will approach him if the time comes, but for now let us consider this a gift.” Nim’s voice fell quiet a moment as she mustered the stomach to say what she was about to say in _support_ of that wretched Wizard. “I consider it a peace-offering. Remember, at one time Artorius was close with Mer. He could have just as easily sent Grehm to Wheel, but he chose to give the weapon to _us_.”

The Queen stepped away from the table, walking to the edge of the terrace. From high in the southern tower, she looked beyond the sprawl of her palace, observing the city and surrounding trees. Her castle was the tallest structure in all of Fore, winding up through dense foliage, resting among a canopy of greenery and wildlife. As Nim looked down, between the leaves and branches, gazing on her city streets, she saw her people bustling along, carrying out their daily lives. To Nim, Fore was a picturesque home, tinged with a quiet sadness.

“That poor woman,” said the Queen, turning away. She looked to Kaileaf and Forage, “The woman whose husband died. Cinny Bark.”

“Majesty?” asked Forage.

“Attend to her,” answered Nim. “Prepare a stately funeral. From today forward, let us honor every death at the hand of a Sleeper as though it were a soldier’s. Gather the people in the streets and let them know their Queen – and the entire district – stands with them.”

Forage and Kaileaf nodded. They made haste to prepare what she’d requested, bowing to their Queen as they backed away from the meeting. The two descended the stairs, heading back into the belly of the palace.

“And finally the human, Ome,” said Nim. “If there is truth to the means of her arrival, then perhaps Artorius can send her home. He is a Wizard, after all. Bring her to him, but keep an eye on her. If she _does_ pose a threat, we cannot let her out of our sight. If she is innocent, then we cannot let her be harmed. I do not want to arrange a second funeral this week. Be covert about it. Do not alarm her. This is a most curious day for the Fore district, so I want everyone on their guard.”

The advisors, as well as Deputy Captain Leaf, stood and bowed to their Queen. One by one they exited, descending the stairs into the palace below. While none of them were entirely satisfied by the conclusion of the assembly, they each vowed loyalty to their Queen, determined to follow her orders. Brush and Weden nodded, rising from the table, feeling accomplished in their efforts. Weden, most of all, felt proud to have successfully advocated on behalf of the people. Meanwhile, Brush carefully gathered Grehm, swaddling the Sword gently in its bindings. She was proud to be granted keeper of such a weapon. She dared not to trust anyone else with it.

As Brush and Weden followed the others down the stairs, and entered the main hall, Weden broke the contemplative silence. “How do you propose we send Ome to Artorius without scaring the hell out of her? More importantly how do we _not_ draw attention from Wheel?”

“Like the Queen said,” Brush replied. “Covertly. We’ll need the rangers and a carriage. We’ll need soldiers who can give us a report on Artorius as well. We have just as much reason to see him as she does. We’ll make preparations tomorrow, though. Tonight, we have a Sleeper to kill.”

* * *

Ome was taken to a featureless chamber at the Western end of the palace. The room contained no furniture and the walls were a dull white. None of the palace’s usual ornate molding outlined the door or baseboards. A solitary open window adorned the far wall, offering a wonderful view of the royal garden and the city beyond. If not for the scenic window, Ome might have thought the room was a prison. She was assured countless times that the chamber was not a cell, but part of some remodeling the Queen had ordered. When pressed as to why she must remain _there_ of all places, the guards simply shrugged and advised that in _there_ she’d be harder to find.

_Find? _thought Ome. _Who would be trying to find me? _She was given two large velvet pillows and a platter of fruits and nuts, though she couldn’t decipher whether those were means of reassurance or a feeble attempt to offer comfort. In either case, she was uncomfortable. So, whatever their intention – the palace’s hospitality failed. However, Ome _did_ eat. Her stomach gurgled with hunger and she was happy to discover they had food with which she was familiar. Sadly, munching on the berries and nuts gave her little satisfaction, and she wished she had some way of brushing her teeth.

When Ome knocked on the door to request the restroom, she was met not by the guards who had escorted her, but instead by an over-excited palace servant who introduced himself as Forage. “The Queen’s staff is at your will,” he smiled. “Though, I can_not_ allow you to leave at the moment. While your bed chamber is being arranged, the Captain has asked that you remain here. She will be with you momentarily.”

Ome paced the room, growing impatient in the empty space. She made herself comfortable at the window sill – the only thing she could lean on. It seemed the sill’s frame was made of petrified wood which, according to Ome’s limited knowledge of _wood_, was very strong. And along the inner sill, she noticed a sconce for candles. “What an unsafe place to leave something burning,” she muttered. “Right at the window?” The sill didn’t seem wide enough, and everything in the damn castle was made of plants and wood. “Flammable,” she said.

The door to the strange room opened. Ome turned away from the window as Brush entered, followed by two guards. The Captain dismissed them, requesting that the door remain unlocked. “I apologize for the security measures we’ve taken,” Brush said quite formally. “Our district, though peaceful as it seems, is actually in a state of cold war. We tolerate no risks.”

“I’m not going to be sleeping in here, right?” Ome heaved.

“The Queen will make accommodations. But let’s get something straight – I’m not here to pamper you. I need to ask you a few questions, that’s all. I need the facts.”

“Your Queen said I wasn’t in any trouble…”

The Captain gave a subtle roll of her eyes. “You’re not,” said Brush sharply. “But you’ve been _seen_ by many of our citizens. They’re going to ask questions. And as I oversee the safety and security of this city – I need answers. I need to be clear about a few things.”

“Ok. I’ll try to answer as best I can.”

“Now, they call you Ome where you’re from, correct?”

“Yeah.” Ome held up her index finger, indicating a correction. “Uh, well actually, I’m Ome _Kobayashi_–”

“–And approximately _when_ did you arrive here?”

“This morning, I guess. I just sort of woke up–”

“ –Where?”

“In the woods–”

“–Approximately how _far_ from–”

“–Hey!” Ome shouted. “I don’t know, ok? I don’t know _anything_ about this place! What is this? A criminal investigation? I’m _lost_. Understand? LOST.”

Brush maintained her usual, militant glare – the unchanging expression of a woman who meant business. Standing near the velvet pillows tossed to the floor, arms crossed, she watched the human with a callous sobriety that gamblers could only dream of. It hadn’t been too long since the Captain had the opportunity to evaluate an intruder. She was a pro. In maintaining said professionalism, Brush resolved that Ome bore none of the obvious signs of deceit. To Brush, the human was visibly upset but remained honest.

“I apologize,” Brush said unconvincingly. “You’re not being tried as a criminal. If you feel uncomfortable–”

“Well I feel really uncomfortable since you came in here!” exclaimed Ome. “What the _fuck_ is your job here, anyway? Who _are_ you?”

Brush grimaced, then paced, keeping her eyes locked on the stubborn human. She walked over to the window, briefly glancing at the view, and then turned to face Ome. Without saying a word, she knelt down to the wooden platter and grabbed several berries, popping them into her mouth. “I’m stability,” said the Captain in between chews. “I’m responsible for the safety of thousands of people.” Brush stood, holding the berries in a cupped hand, still tossing them into her mouth. “They count on _me_. Citizens rely on _me_ for protection. Soldiers look to _me_ for leadership. They depend on _me_ to keep them alive each and every damn day. And do you know _what_ from?”

Unimpressed by her tone, Ome stared at the Captain with no reply.

Brush repeated herself, “Do you know what I protect them from?”

Shaking her head, Ome couldn’t venture to guess.

“Do you see those woods?” Brush gestured out the window. “There are _things_ in those woods that you can’t even _imagine_. Those things would rip your pretty little face off. And those things would _kill_ each and every Yoth under _my_ protection if we weren’t vigilant. _Some_ of those things out there are worse than others – but they’re all dangerous.” Pausing, the Captain tapped her finger on the glass, right over the spot displaying the endless stretch of the Clip Woods. “We live among _those_ trees because their resources keep us alive. But as a price to pay, countless savage _things_ lurk throughout them. And so, when a stranger like yourself wanders in from _those_ trees – into _my_ city – you better believe I’d do everything in my power, right down to my very eye teeth, to protect my people from a risk like _you_.”

Realizing the gravity of her situation, Ome gave a nervous swallow. Brush didn’t mince her words, not even for a second. And at that moment, she felt farther from home than ever before. A fleeting blip of hopelessness left Ome feeling dizzy. To keep from falling, she casually leaned against the wall and shoved her hands into her pockets, taking care not to reveal the pepper spray.

Brush walked toward the door, gesturing for Ome to follow. “The guards will take you somewhere to get cleaned up. Come.”At a split in the hall, the Captain turned left as the guards escorted Ome to the right. Suiting, their relationship couldn’t have begun in any other way. As she walked, Ome wondered what sort of dangers Brush referred to. And should misfortune have its way, she wondered if the Captain would protect her as relentlessly as she’d protect her own people.

* * *

When Ome heard the Queen requested her for a private dinner, she was unsure what to do. She had never dined with royalty before, and she certainly wasn’t accustomed to Yoth practices. Dressing formally was out of the question, as she only had what clothes she was wearing: jeans, sneakers, tank top, and a lousy hooded sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off. She did make an attempt to clean her teeth and face before a servant knocked on the washroom door. “The Queen awaits your presence,” he reminded.

“I’ll be right out,” replied Ome. She looked at herself in the tarnished mirror hanging from the dark, wooden wall. The water she had splashed to her face now trickled down her cheeks as her black hair clumped together in frizzy strands. Dark circles had formed beneath her eyes and she inspected them with a neurotic scrutiny, assuming they resulted from stress. Ome patted her face dry with the end of her shirt, shook her head, thinking the same thing she always did when looking in a mirror: _I look like shit. _The servant escorted her to an ornate dining hall. The hall, like everything else, was decorated in what she presumed was a “Yoth” style. Most of it was constructed from wood and blended to look natural – as if every table, chair, and door unsurprisingly sprouted up from the floor. The hardware was metallic with a brassy tint, appearing just as tarnished as the washroom mirror. Every hinge and handle was shaped to appear as if it, too, grew from the wood. Several times, Ome looked back at objects, swearing she saw them appear out of nowhere. However, unable to confirm her suspicions, she casually shook the notion. Either her eyes played tricks, or the palace was as alive as any forest, growing and changing as the elements invisibly danced through the air, nipping at the heels of organic life.

Nim appeared from the far end of the dining hall, moving gracefully toward her seat. Ome, unsure of the proper greeting, bowed her head ever so slightly. The Queen took no notice, sitting in her chair with a complacence that spilled over into her words. “I’ve arranged a room for you. There you will find extra clothes in the wardrobe. You are our guest for as long as you need.”

Ome smiled, albeit weakly. “Thank you.” The food was brought out, and to her delight there was far too much of it. She was starving. One peculiarity worth noting was that there was no meat to be found. Scanning the table, Ome saw greens, nuts, legumes, creamy bean paste, breads, fruit, and cheese. That was all. “No meat?” she asked.

Nim shook her head. “Yoth do not consume flesh.”

“Religious reasons?”

“We cannot. It would kill us.”

“Ah. Well, _that’s_ a good reason.”

“Humans may eat flesh, correct?”

Ome nodded. Then she took a banana and peeled it open, biting into its sweet center.

“The lion and the deer,” mumbled Nim. Her tone was somewhat amused.

“Excuse me?” asked Ome. She dabbed her mouth with a thick, hand-woven napkin.

Nim chuckled a bit. “Humans,” she said. “They are like lions. Yoth – we are like deer. Both are strong and fast, but one is a predator and the other is prey.”

“Have humans hurt your people?” asked Ome with a frown.

Shaking her head, Nim raised a hand, waving away the possibility. “No, not exactly,” she replied. “The Yoth are meant to be part of the land. We eat _from_ it. We grow _with_ it. We are a passive people. Humans are more dictatorial of their terrain. They manipulate it, often times destroying it so that they may stay alive. It’s a different means of survival – being a predator of land. But, as far as I know, that is how humans differ from Yoth. However, human soil is able to heal itself. Ours is not so flexible. Lot is not meant to be manipulated or destroyed.”


	6. Chapter 6

Waiting at the edge of the Fore palace courtyard, Weden stood with three of his trusted guards, handpicked for the evening’s daunting task. As dusk came upon them, and he saw the Captain approaching, he directed his companions to ignite their torches. Brush moved silently past them, leading off to the edge of the woods where five horses were saddled and ready to go. Weden and his guards followed. Then, they each mounted a horse and rode along the path, moving deeper into the Clip Woods. Brush made no attempt at conversation as they left the safety of Fore. She knew their torches would draw enough attention in the dark. Talking would only make things worse. _Besides_, she thought, _we’ve been on enough hunts. There’s nothing left to say_.

As they neared the Yield, Weden broke the silence. “We’re getting close.” The dense trees began to thin as he and Brush spotted the telltale end of the Clip Woods: an abrupt stop in the vegetation. This dead spot marked the beginning of the Wheel district’s territory. The green grass of the forest became a dirty, dead patch of yellow and brown turf, stretching on for meters in every direction. In the distance, centered within the dead patch along the dust and rocks, a _large crack_ ran along the ground, jagged and deep – the Yield. Just a few meters beyond Brush and her companions was a mammoth fortress wall, sealing off entry to the Wheel district. It was as tall as a building, perhaps taller than the Fore palace, itself. “Do you think they’ll notice we’re here?” asked Weden. Their horses trotted up, stepping into the clearing alongside Wheel’s grounds.

The sound of hinges creaked and turned. A tall door on the edge of the fortress opened. “They already have,” observed Brush. Two Wheel soldiers stepped out from behind the door, carrying an assortment of strange weapons pointed right at the Captain and her party. She knew very little about Wheel armament, only that they preferred triggered mechanisms that could spit fire at long distances. Though Brush didn’t understand _what_ the weapons exactly were, she understood the need for such deadly projectiles – their city lay right at the foot of the Yield.

A grunt of a Wheel soldier clumsily walked with a metal tank strapped to her back. A hose ran from the tank, connecting to a large iron cannon which she almost impossibly carried in her arms. The Fore soldiers marveled at the grunt’s strength until Brush observed the metal braces installed across her elbow joints. As the Wheel soldier moved, gears and ratchets whirred, enabling her to carry the cumbersome weapon with ease.

“That looks a little heavy for you, dear,” Brush smiled condescendingly. “So what do you call _this_ one?”

“Doesn’t have a name yet. It’s a new issue,” she snapped proudly. The grunt gestured to the firearm in her associate’s hands. “Makes the modrifs look like a pinprick. King Mer’s own design.”

Weden shifted uneasily. “New design? What’s the occasion? Is Wheel planning a war anytime soon?”

The second Wheel soldier, quite lanky in his appearance, stepped forward. “Well your Queen would know all about waging war, eh? Starving us, terrorizing trade routes–”

“–Enough!” shouted a voice. A tall, attractive Yoth approached from Wheel’s city gate. Brush recognized him immediately. _Spring._ The dapper, long-haired man stepped into the torchlight and stood between the feuding soldiers. He was pale and lean like his comrades, but under his armor, Brush could see Spring’s muscles were still toned. The Wheel Captain suspiciously maintained good health, despite his city’s ongoing battle with malnourishment. “No one is declaring war on my watch. So take care where you point your arms, soldiers,” he commanded. Then he gave a laugh, eyeing Brush with a stylishly creepy grin. “How are _you_, dear Captain?”

“We’re on a hunt,” Brush declared, revealing a bottle of the elixir Cell begrudgingly concocted earlier that day.

Spring frowned, then asked with a touch of apprehension in his voice, “Whose blood?”

“Mul Bark’s.”

“What a shame.” He pursed his lips and sighed. “I remember Mul Bark. Good man, really. Back when I worked the Fore palace, sometimes he’d come around. We spoke on and off. Quite the leatherworker wasn’t he? He did that after retiring from the military if I recall.”

Brush nodded, uninterested in reminiscing.

“And what of Cinny?” asked Spring. “Did she–”

“–She’s alive. Coping poorly, but alive.”

With an approving nod, Spring moved past his soldiers, looking into the direction of the Yield. “Then we’ll let you continue with your hunt.” He turned, waving to his heavily armed grunts. “Stand down. Let them pass.” The Wheel soldiers saluted their Captain and returned to the entrance from which they emerged. Meanwhile, Weden led the hunting party toward the Yield. Brush was on the ball of her foot, en route behind her Lieutenant – but Spring motioned for her to pause a moment. She hesitated, then unenthusiastically fell back. He had a knack for wasting her time. “You realize incidents like this don’t have to happen anymore,” he said. “We’re _very_ close to reaching an agreement. I don’t want our efforts to have been for _nothing_.”

Brush waited until there was some distance between her and the soldiers. “King Mer’s peace agreement has merit,” she replied. “Our advisors read over it twice. Nothing will come to pass if we can’t get Nim and Mer to meet face to face.”

“I understand that,” nodded Spring, “But the King is old and weak. His judgment isn’t as keen as it once was.” Pausing, the Wheel Captain nodded. Then he scrunched his eyebrows and stuck out his lower lip. “These ten long years apart from Fore have _damaged_ him.”

Unable to stomach Spring’s feigned sympathy for his King, Brush looked away. Directing her voice toward the ground, she asked with suspicion, “Is that why he trusts _you_?”

“Yes, as your Queen trusts _you_. Do you realize that with no heirs, both thrones will be vacant one day? There’s no bloodline on either side. Not for Nim. Not for Mer.” Spring smirked with an arrogant snort. “Hell, Wheel’s become so militaristic against the Sleepers that the only one growing in power is, well, _me_.”

“The same can be said for me,” Brush admitted. “I fear that I do too much. It feels like I’m doing everything. The responsibilities Nim’s placed on my head ever since the split–”

“–Oh come now,” grinned Spring. “Who _doesn’t_ enjoy a little extra authority? When Mer’s gone someday, I could very well take over as King. But I don’t want to wait that long to make peace between our districts. Do _you_?”

Brush looked up. “Of course not.”

“What if your Queen grew sick?” asked Spring, fighting a smile. “Who would take over Fore? You, I imagine.”

“I hadn’t thought about that–”

“–I don’t want to become like _them_, Brush.” Spring placed a patronizing hand on her shoulder. “We’re better than that – right? I don’t want to inherit a loveless feud between Nim and Mer. In fact, I _know_ things would be different between _us_.” He grinned.

Brush didn’t know what to say. Apparently, Spring already had distinct plans in mind, with both Nim and Mer dead and buried. The sheer jest of such was unsettling. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle the death of her Queen, but to _plan_ on it, as if it were a future investment? Such levels of self-interest were questionable to say the least, especially for a Captain who had pledged loyalty. Shaking her head, Brush peered at Spring in the torchlight. He looked tired but handsome. Living in Wheel hadn’t been overly kind to his features, but still, he was rugged with a sharp jaw, long thick hair, and piercing green eyes – healthier and better spirited than most Wheel citizens. To Brush, it didn’t make sense, but she had her suspicions. Despite his dashing facade, she saw that telltale glimmer of pretense in Spring’s eyes, one that she was quite accustomed to. “I need to go,” she said, wrenching her shoulder from his hand.

“The treaty!” he protested, grabbing her by the elbow. “Don’t let it fall to the wayside. We should meet again. _Soon_.”

“Very well,” she said, “but hopefully under better circumstances. I have a Sleeper to kill.” Brush pried Spring’s fingers from her elbow, glaring at him with impatience. Walking away, she followed the path of her companions who had likely reached the Yield by now. Spring watched as she disappeared into the darkness. His heart sank. He wondered if anything he said got through to her. He hoped that despite Brush’s reluctance, his words would sink in and compel her to see things _his_ way.

* * *

Servants cleared the table after Nim and Ome drank the last of their respective wine and tea. Ome wanted so badly to stand, thank the Queen, and hurry to her chamber. There she wished to curl up on a bed, close her eyes tightly, and wake up at home – safe from this nightmare. But her chair was heavy and pressed against the table. Despite her efforts, she wasn’t able to rise nonchalantly and make her escape. A servant, she remembered, had scooted her chair up much too far, and as she feared, it was too heavy to push away without help. Ome felt hopelessly trapped. _What an iconic situation_, she thought.

When the last servant left and the two women were finally alone, Nim leaned in and quietly said, “I’ve traveled in the same way you came to be here.”

“Pardon me?” asked Ome.

“The face on the wall,” replied the Queen. “The one you saw in your basement? It’s called a Dactyl. And there’s no mistake about its name. It’s an _appendage_ between worlds.”

“So, then, you _knew_ what I was talking about?”

The Queen nodded. “There were many of them at one time. I used them for travel. They may only be used so many times before they vanish. But now, there are none that _I_ know of. Surely the one you used has since disappeared. It must have led in one direction – _here_.”

“So you’re saying it wasn’t roundtrip?” chuckled Ome. Judging by Nim’s stony exterior, the joke went right over her big, crowned head. Ome sighed. “I never noticed it before,” she added. “I rarely went down in that basement, but you would’ve thought I’d notice something like _that_. Or at least, you would’ve thought my parents noticed it years ago_._”

Nim sipped her wine and smiled. “Dactyls blend in well,” she explained. “They are not obvious. They move. They disappear and reappear elsewhere. Most often they show up in unexpected places.”

“Dactyl,” Ome repeated. “So _that’s_ how you traveled to and from my world? That’s how you know about humans?”

Nim gave a nod as she sipped her wine. “I often traveled back and forth from this world to yours. You see, my husband came from your world.”

“Your husband? Is he the _King_?” The question was met with an awkward silence and Ome suddenly felt wrong for having asked. She cleared her throat and reiterated, “Because I – eh – haven’t seen a King.”

Nim didn’t answer the query right away. Instead, she sat quietly, her eyes locked on the woman. Then she took a last sip of wine, carefully tilting the glass to the curve of her lower lip, just below the extravagant mask that clung to her face.

“I’m sorry for asking,” Ome muttered. “I just noticed–”

“–Yes,” answered Nim. “Mer was my consort, and ruled as King beside me for many years. But no, he is no longer with me.”

“And he’s from _my_ world?”

“Yes.”

“Is he… _human_?”

The right corner of the Queen’s mouth inched upward in a delicate grin. “Not exactly,” she answered cryptically. “And he now presides over the Wheel district. Mer and I are separated by quite some distance.”

“Wheel district?” asked Ome. “That’s where your people thought I was from.”

“They’re a very different populace. At one time we were united. We were a single Yoth nation. But Mer and I had our differences. Before long, so did our people. Now we exist as two separate districts.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Ome, making an attempt at sympathy. She felt two-dimensional at that moment, but not so much out of panic. It wasn’t that same, obligatory _flat _feeling. Rather, she was lost in thought, determining that she had little clue as to what it felt like to lose half of one’s entire kingdom. But then a sudden feeling crept over Ome, and she remembered what it was like when her parents divorced.

“The Fore district does not need your compassion,” the Queen asserted. Then, as though to correct herself, she said, “But I thank you. Do _you_ have a husband in your world?”

Ome stifled a laugh, “No. I haven’t had a steady boyfriend in a while.”

“Are you a member of an abbey?”

“No, nothing like that.” She shifted uncomfortably, feeling captive to her chair. “I just don’t get out much. I tend to stay indoors.”

“I don’t understand,” replied Nim, mustering as much earnest as she could. But in a way, the Queen _did_ understand. How many hours did she waste, locking herself away in her room, lost to her own melancholia? “On that matter,” she continued, “I have arranged quarters for you. Whether your stay is temporary or permanent, we want you to be comfortable.”

Ome began to sweat. “Permanent? Do you think it might be? What about the …doctiles?”

“_Dactyls_,” corrected Nim. “They are more than scarce here in Lot. Likely they are extinct. Much has changed over the last decade and I am afraid Dactyls are somewhat of an antiquity now. That _you_ are here at all is something of miracles.”

“Then I’m stuck.” Sighing, Ome cleared her throat and looked down at her lap.

“There is a chance to return you home, but it is slight. I must confer with my Captain before exploring that avenue.”

“Thank you. This is a unique place. Beautiful and big and awesome – really, I get that. But I _don’t_ belong here.”

“I cannot argue that,” replied the Queen as she rose from her seat, ringing a small chime to summon her staff. Servants poured in from various entryways, and one in particular smiled as he pulled Ome’s chair from the table. Before Nim departed, she paused and bowed her head to Ome, acknowledging her as a guest. Turning away, the Queen made her exit through the dining hall while servants followed behind, monitoring her every step.

A remaining servant grinned politely at Ome, instructing her to follow him. “You lucked out,” he said. “The Queen selected a very nice room for you.”

* * *

“I want to triangulate the scent,” ordered Brush. One of the three guards took the bottle of elixir, opened it, and poured the solution in three separate locations around the Yield. Ordering each guard to stand at each spot, she explained, “Don’t bother with your swords.” Brush pulled three unlit torches from a satchel that hung from her horse’s saddle. Lighting each with a flint device, she handed them off. “As usual, hold a torch. Fire’s the only thing that works. They’re terrified of it. Don’t waste your energy with melee. And do _not_ hesitate! Hesitation _will_ _be_ your death. Got it?” The guards nodded.

The Captain and her Lieutenant Commander stood adjacent to the triangle of Mul’s blood. “The sky is growing dark,” observed Weden. “Any minute now they’ll come out of the ground. What then? Can’t fight them all.”

“You believe in falsehoods,” said Brush, dismissively. “They can come out _at any time_, and they _don’t_ travel together. These things _tend_ to come out at night because that’s when _we_ sleep. We’re vulnerable at night. If a Sleeper wants to emerge during the day – it will.” She pointed at the triangle. “This elixir should draw out Mul’s attacker. Artorius created the recipe, himself. It’s worked in the past. The scent of Mul’s blood should trigger the creature’s frenzy.”

“It’s female, right?” asked a nervous guard.

Brush nodded. “We assume so. It’s not a newborn, in any case. She’s killed one of our people. She needs to be exterminated quickly. Some of these things are infants and have yet to kill – and may never. But the older ones who _do_ kill are the most dangerous. They’re the ones that grow stronger.”

They waited.

* * *

Ome followed the servant into her quarters. He was correct. Her room was especially nice. It was very large and spacious, covered with fine, dark wood. In the center was an oversized bed, draped with soft linens and plush pillows. At the foot of the bed was a large bay window. Approaching it, Ome peeked through its thick, crystal clear glass. She was higher than she thought and could barely see the ground. The dark trees surrounding her window’s ledge swallowed up the even darker surface below. Turning away, she scanned the room as the servant rattled off instructions and meal times. Ome half listened still overwhelmed by the day’s events.

“…and there is sleepwear in the wardrobe…”

Pulling off her sweatshirt, Ome made sure not to let the pepper spray fall from its pocket. Beneath the sweatshirt, all she wore was a white tank top – no bra. Admittedly, she wasn’t so crazy about that. Regardless, there was little choice. With delicacy, she draped her sweatshirt across the end table next to the bed.

“…we pick up laundry at noon if you need something washed…”

Walking over to the wardrobe, Ome opened the door and pulled out a nightgown from inside. Setting it on the bed, the gown’s texture felt smooth and silky around her fingers. The fabric was soft and cream-colored, like vanilla leaves. It even smelled somewhat like vanilla, which proved satisfying to the senses.

“…just leave your laundry outside the door…”

The servant prattled on as he walked around the room, scooting small furniture back into its place and picking up leftover items from the previous guest. Lighting a candle, he placed it on the window’s ledge just before he hurried to a narrow closet, pulling towels from within. Then, with profound instruction, the servant informed Ome that the bath was located at the end of the corridor.

“I could use a bath,” she said, frowning with embarrassment. After rolling around in the muddy woods, not to mention her nervous sweats, she was ready for a soak.

“Then follow me,” instructed the servant.

* * *

Something from within the Yield stirred. The ground shook lightly, and the sound of movement could be heard as the night air came to a quiet standstill. Brush gripped her torch as she nodded to one of the guards, indicating he keep his eye on the crevice by his feet. A pair of delicate hands with long, pointed fingers stretched out from the crack, firmly gripping the surrounding rock. The guard’s eyes widened. Brush signaled for him to remain calm and quiet. The other two guards also watched the pair of hands, as equally as frightened.

With a quiet struggle, the hands pulled, hoisting along a set of slender, muscular arms, attached to an equally trim body with the face of a beautiful woman. The Sleeper. She had long red hair past her shoulders. Her eyes were as black as a snake’s, reflecting the white pinprick of the shining moon above, giving the illusion of glowing pupils. Along her back was a set of small wings, webbed by flesh and hooked with bone. She wore no clothes, revealing everything from her toes to her breasts, each connected by muscles wrapped beneath smooth, ashen flesh. Sniffing the air, she made no other sound. Her body moved like a phantom, slinking away from the Yield, gingerly crawling along the dirt. The guard closest to her became entranced, unexplainably in love with the beautiful Sleeper’s every move. Blinded by the scent of the elixir, she inched closer to the spot where she smelled Mul’s blood. It was then the demon’s head cocked upward, and she finally noticed the flamed torches above her.

“Now!” shouted Brush.

The guard failed to move on his Captain’s order – and the other two hesitated as well. The Sleeper leapt to the closest man, digging her hands deep into his neck, gripping something strong in his throat before ripping it away. He let out a harrowing scream, then choked as a crimson gush of blood burst from his chest. The Sleeper made no sound – no cries, no growls. She silently bit and tore at the guard like an animal with a toy, hungrily chewing on his skin, licking his bones as they protruded with each violent swipe.

“NOW!” Brush repeated. Taking charge, she ran toward the Sleeper, aiming her torch. Weden followed, readying his flame as well. All four of them rushed to the dying guard as the Sleeper mauled him beyond recognition. They thrust their torches to her flesh. The fire caught to her skin like it was dried parchment, spreading across her back in a sweep of black bubbles and smoke. Even then, she made no sound, still clinging to the guard. He was long since dead. The flames spread from her body to his, wrapping around the two like a freakish blanket of kindled light. A blaze erupted and the Sleeper no longer moved as the grotesque bonfire smoldered along the ground. Brush and her party backed away, shielding their faces from the heat.

Weden coughed, retreating to his horse. Brush and the others followed, planting their arms across their faces as the smoke wildly billowed all around. “How much more of _this_ during my service to her majesty?” asked Weden, briefly lowering his arm. He coughed abruptly and immediately covered his mouth.

Knowing Spring likely watched the assault from Wheel’s fortress high above, Brush pointed into the direction of their enemy city. With a serious look overhanging her tired eyes, she replied, “Until we strike a deal with _them_.”


	7. Chapter 7

After her bath, Ome reached for the folded towel placed at the foot of the tub. Wrapping the soft fabric around her body, she stepped out, instinctively squeezing the water from her wet, black hair. When she was dry enough to leave, Ome exited the bathing room, hustling down the corridor. She paused a moment, realizing she was only in a towel and a rush of awkward humiliation tickled its way through her chest. But no one saw as she quickly tiptoed along the wooden floor, ducked inside her bedroom, and carefully closed the door. Inside, she noticed a latch-lock just above the door handle and flattened its shank, securing it in place. Ome checked and double-checked the lock by twisting the handle a little too compulsively. It was secure enough but she _had_ to check again and again, all the while shaking her head, telling herself to quit it. _That’s a bad habit I’ll never break_, she thought.

Approaching her bed, Ome removed her towel and tossed it to the ground. She grabbed the nightgown that Fore staff had provided and placed her arms through its sleeves, buttoning the material from her neck to her knees. Her skin felt sticky and flushed. It was stuffy in that room after such a hot bath.Needing fresh air, Ome walked over to the bay window. Strangely, she wasn’t concerned about keeping it open _this_ high from the ground. The room was at least five stories up. Maybe six – it was a large palace. Searching the window for a lock, she noticed a lit candle resting on the sill. _God damn it. _Ome shook her head. How could she have left a burning candle unattended? Very stupid. Very dangerous.She blew out the flame and opened the window.

* * *

A knock rattled Nim’s chamber door as she sat at her desk, once again holding that white amulet and reading over stacks of letters. Her mask remained on an elegant stand near the edge of her desk, superimposed over a glimpse of royal clothing draped from a sturdy wardrobe in the distance. Nim was dressed in a simple nightgown, her delicate face exposed and her long, green hair flattened from hours of wearing heavy garments. “Come,” she said.

The door opened and Brush stepped inside. Shutting it behind her, she took no time to bow or perform any ritual expected in the company of royalty. Nim had little concern, being quite used to her Captain’s neglectful formalities. With an exhausted sigh, Brush announced, “The Sleeper that attacked Mul Bark has been taken care of.”

Nim shrugged. “Is that all you came for?”

Hesitant to indulge her Queen, Brush took a moment to think over that particular question. Shaking her head, she solemnly replied, “No. There’s more.” Nim stared, waiting for her to continue, and so the Captain mustered the courage to introduce a somewhat ill subject to the discussion. “I’ve been in contact with Spring.”

With her eyes fixed on Brush, Nim didn’t make one movement or sound. It was as if she suddenly went rigid, like her insides had frozen over from hearing such ugly words. Regardless, Brush continued with a fair degree of confidence. “I’ve been talking with him on and off over the last few weeks.” Nim’s glare hardened, as if she studied those words with contempt. Her brilliant green eyes never flinched, and her body barely wavered, but it was apparent to Brush that she had justifiably _pissed_ _off_ her Queen. “We have a chance at peace,” she continued. “But to achieve it we _must_ meet on neutral ground. Please. Write up a treaty. We must reach some agreement on these issues that _both_ our districts face!” Pausing, the Captain stared right back at Nim, challenging her to argue that truth. The Queen clearly had nothing to say and so Brush pressed the issue. “I understand that you don’t want to interact with Mer. And perhaps – well – perhaps you don’t have to. Spring’s willing to speak on his King’s behalf. And I’m willing to speak on yours. He and I can conduct the meeting.”

Nim sighed, glancing away. Her eyes softened as a hint of sadness blended into the wooden expression of her face. She seemed disappointed, like a parent discovering the proverbial oversights often made by her teenager. “You are a fool,” she said.

Forgetting her place, Brush glared at the Queen and bitterly muttered, “What do you mean?”

“In all my life, I have never met a woman with as much strength and confidence as you, Brush. You are brilliant and powerful and noble. You have the heart of a warrior and the mind of a scholar. You’ve always put others before yourself.”

“Majesty–”

“But you are a _fool_ when it comes to one fixation.” Nim clenched her teeth and sneered, “_Spring_.”

Brush tightened her lips and puffed heavy breaths through her nose so as to not lose her temper. Such behavior would be inappropriate, but it was known to happen, especially with this particular Captain of the guard.

“Regardless,” continued Nim, “you have my attention. Though I wonder what inspired Spring, of all wretched people, to suggest peace. After all, it was _his_ influence that set more than a few unpleasant incidents into motion. And it was _his_ advice to the King regarding those _machines_. Has or has not Wheel mechanized itself into the grave? I wonder why _Spring_ converses in private with _my_ Captain. What, pray tell, has changed between the two of you?”

Brush pulled up a chair, sitting very close to Nim. With a dark expression, she looked the Queen deep in the eyes. “I don’t know what has changed for him. But you _know_ what has changed for us.”

“The Sword?” asked Nim.

Brush nodded.

The Queen gave her Captain a sour look and said, “Grehm is _not_ ours. Only Artorius can wield it. No one else. And he is exiled.”

Pointing to herself, Brush replied, “But it’s in _our_ possession. Artorius gave the Sword to _us_. And _he_ is _our_ ally. Through him, Grehm will give the Fore district control over–”

“–_Pen_,” muttered Nim.

“_Yes_,” whispered Brush.

“But _what_ makes you think Artorius will wield it for _us_?”

Brush sighed and cleared her throat. “Majesty, you know how Artorius feels about Spring.”

Nim grimaced. “And I am to assume his resentment for Spring applies to the _entire_ Wheel district?”

“It does now. Artorius is aware of how badly Wheel has destroyed their land. He isn’t pleased.”

“Well then,” said Nim, her face giving consideration to the possibility, “then perhaps you have made your point.” The Queen pursed her lips, looking down on Brush with a hard-nosed superiority. “We are fortunate he does not resent you too, yes? Wheel is not the _only_ thing guilty of destroying something beautiful – _is it_?”

_Bitch, _thought the Captain, drawing a breath of air in lieu saying that aloud. What a low blow. Brush licked her lips, carefully selecting her words. “That was a long time ago,” she began. “Artorius has forgiven me. And he’ll aid us with Grehm if this war erupts into pandemonium – if we have _no_ _other_ choice.”

Nim folded her hands over her knees, sitting back in her chair. Staring at her old friend, she quietly waited for further persuasion.

“But,” said Brush, “I don’t want it to come to that. Our war’s at a standstill right now. We have a chance at peace. I don’t want to go back into battle and Spring doesn’t either. But as tensions escalate, one never knows.” She paused as her breath trembled over those words. Shameful, Brush wished she could stop with the chattering and, instead, beat some sense into the Queen – fists and all. “I get it. I do,” she continued, offering reassurance. “To actually _use_ Grehm and call upon _Pen_ is to call upon chaos. But both districts _want_ peace. My Queen. Majesty. _Nim_. I _beg_ of you – let me negotiate on your behalf…” Brush trailed off as if to drive her point home by allowing such words to linger. Then she added, “…for _peace._”

* * *

The cool night air swept over Ome as she snuggled below her warm blankets. The soft mattress beneath her was packed with goose feathers, conforming to every curve of her tired muscles. She never felt such comfort in a bed. Ome smiled as her brain began flipping through the channels of sleep, dragging her further into a deep, heavy doze. Her breathing slowed and her mouth opened as the muscles in her jaw relaxed. She was fast asleep.

A great sound rumbled in the distance, beyond the trees outside her window. As the rumbling peaked, then died down, a new sound took its place much closer to the window. Something shuffled along the palace wall, gripping the wood with its long fingers. As it climbed higher, the fluttering of brawny wings swished gently on the night’s breeze. By that point, Ome was deep inside a dream, oblivious to all sounds.

Then _he_ crawled through her window. And he stood tall, casting a long shadow across her bedroom. As he stared at Ome, she slept soundly, wrapped in her blankets like a swaddled baby. What snuck through her window was not too unlike the creature that Brush and her men had killed earlier that day. A male Sleeper. His arms, legs, and fingers were long, and his muscles swam across his body, roping themselves around his bones. He looked like a handsome, white sculpture. Every inch of him was naked since whatever unholy birth had brought him into the world. Like all Sleepers, his hair was as red as fire and it grew long and wild, hanging in disproportionate strips that fell past his shoulders. And those eyes – those _black_ eyes – shaped like a serpent’s, staring out from a face as delicate as a doll’s. Though he didn’t look it, this Sleeper was quite old. Older than all the rest. He knew how to hunt and had killed many times before. He had never been caught or coaxed, not even with the elixir. This Sleeper was stronger than the others, able to resist the Yoth’s tricks. He blended well into the Clip Woods, and often hid himself away like a phantom in the trees. Powerful. Archaic. Clever. The Sleeper standing over Ome was none to be reckoned with.

Silently, he moved closer, climbing across the bed. He crawled along Ome’s body, moving his arms and legs stealthily like a cat as it would slink across its slumbering master. He craftily evened out his weight as he moved, so as to not wake his victim. The Sleeper knew she’d eventually become conscious, but he thought it best to avoid seducing a woken woman. Yoth were all too _easy_ to seduce, but killing one in her sleep was far more efficient. True, however, victims often woke and fell paralyzed to the embrace of a Sleeper, hypnotized by the demon’s expressionless, ebony stare. Mating, at times, took place, much to the demand of the entranced prey who – unaware of their imminent death – always wanted a taste of the creature’s flesh against their own. Pregnancy between Sleeper and victim was rare. Halflings occurred so infrequently that such a thing was legend. Yoth typically died following the savage brutality of such a coupling. And for a male victim to impregnate a female Sleeper – impossible. Nothing may reside in a demon’s womb but ash. True Sleepers emerged only from the ground – from the deepest void, darkened by the veil of cold bodies and the dead, broken bones of the soil. Such pitch, bleak nihility was a Sleeper’s one and only mother.

Gripping Ome’s covers, the intruder slowly, but firmly, pulled them away. Dragging the blankets down to her knees, his eyes remained fixed on the helpless female before him. Beyond the window, moonlight peeked from behind a cloud, brightening the room enough to reveal dim shades of color. In that moment, the Sleeper noticed Ome did _not_ have green hair. Puzzled, he furrowed his brow, reaching forward to inspect the black locks matted against her neck.

Ome, drifting out of a heavy sleep cycle, fluttered her eyes open, wondering what caused not only a draft, but such a cumbersome weight upon her. Looking up, she saw an attractive man reaching to her collarbone. He was a strange man with long, red hair and wide, black eyes. He looked at her inquisitively, gently tugging her hair between his white fingers.

As their eyes locked, the intruder gave a look of surprise. He noticed his victim’s eyes were not green, either. No green hair. No green eyes. The sudden observation aroused suspicion in the demon, and he bent closer to study the strange colors. It was important, he reasoned. Unfamiliar colors meant unfamiliar prey. Such things were obvious warnings for predators. And the predator looming over Ome was quite proud of his ability to survive for as long as he had. He wasn’t about to compromise his notoriety.

Ome realized the man on top of her wore no clothes. Suddenly, the horror of what she assumed he intended to do with such deliberate nudity bounced from the shock on her face to the churning hysteria in her gut. She screamed, flailing her arms, knocking his hand away from her hair. Swinging her left hand, she smacked the intruder upside his face. Amidst Ome’s thrashing, the creature grabbed her by the wrist, catching sight of her severed pinky finger. He paused in his deflection to survey the injury with absurd curiosity. As the female wriggled beneath his weight, squirming her knees up from under his own, something dawned on the Sleeper – his victim was not Yoth. He didn’t know _what_ she was. This thing in front of him was _alien_. _Unexpected_. Even _disappointing_. He couldn’t justify the risk of devouring her. His plans had changed.

For Ome – nothing had changed. All the proverbial alarms blared away in her head: _Danger! Danger! Time to freak the fuck out!_ Wrenching her hand from his, she kicked the intruder in his chest, propelling him off of her as she leapt from the bed. He regained his balance and aggressively grabbed the back of her nightgown. As she wrestled from his grip, Ome briefly noted that he made _no_ sound. All the while, _she_ grunted and heaved, reaching for the night stand, rummaging around for her sweatshirt. The intruder ripped at her gown, tearing apart the fabric like paper, then grabbed at her bare shoulders, yanking Ome back into his monstrous embrace. In the midst of the scuffle, she managed to reach into her sweatshirt pocket, removing the pepper spray. Turning around, she unlocked the safety, pointing the can dead at his face.

As Ome held up the spray, her eyes settled on the man’s full physique. To her terror and confusion – he had _wings_. “What the fuck!” she yelled. Horrified, she pressed the button, triggering a stream of mace. It hissed through the air, splattering into the creature’s eyes. He stumbled away, covering his face, thrashing in an awkwardly silent display. As the demon twisted and flailed from side to side, Ome could tell this thing was most assuredly in pain. She didn’t wait around to hear him make some noise. Instead, Ome threw what little weight she had against him, forcing his posture backward. The winged creature tumbled against the gaping mouth of the bay window, stumbled, and tripped over the sill. Whipping his arms around to grip the walls, he squeezed his eyes shut from the stinging pain. Losing what pitiful hold he had, the Sleeper rolled out the window, slamming against nearby trees as he disappeared into the darkness below. Seconds later, Ome heard a crash, as if something heavy smashed through a beam of splintered wood.

Gasping and sweating, her entire body thundered with the heavy pulse of blood. Unadulterated fear propelled every drop of shit, piss, and plasma to roll up inside Ome like an insuppressible, frenzied thing. She slammed the window shut and locked it tight. Checking and rechecking the lock in a compulsive fury, she convulsed with adrenaline, hoping to maintain control over her bladder and gut. It was dark. She was alone. Afraid. Afraid and alone – _in the dark_. Ome grabbed the candle from the sill, lighting its wick with a shaky hand. She placed it by her bed, climbed in, and pulled her knees to her chest. Ome stayed up for the remainder of the night, waiting for her panic to subside, wondering _just_ _what in the living hell_ climbed through her window.


	8. Chapter 8

Sitting at a grungy table where soldiers convened for breakfast, Brush poked at the food in her bowl. Her mind raced, albeit groggily, because she rarely slept well at night. Too many problems swam around in her head, and too many threats walked the grounds beyond the palace after dusk. Last night, in particular, Brush remembered the sound of rumbling throughout the area. She suspected it came from the Wheel district – one of their war machines. Those could be heard all the way across the Clip Woods.

Looking around, the Captain observed her soldiers eating and talking. She envied their idle chitchat. Nothing as uncomplicated as weather and holidays were part of Brush’s daily conversations – not as of late. She sighed, reconsidering her location for breakfast. Joining Nim might have been the wiser choice. It wasn’t the _preferred_ choice, but Brush meant to discuss issues in need of resolution. Nim agreed to a peace treaty late last night, but the Queen was so exhausted, she retired to bed soon after. Nothing more came of it. Brush grabbed her cup and plate, stood, and hurried across the room. She pushed through a trio of guards as they bustled past the door, then trotted up a flight of narrow, wooden stairs. Turning one corner, then another, Brush entered into the royal dining hall. There she saw Nim, having just sat down to breakfast. The human was with her. Brush shot Ome a hard glance who didn’t even take notice. In fact, the human appeared shaken, almost as sleep-deprived as the Captain.

“Good,” said Nim. “We are glad you are here. Our guest has something to report.” She gestured to Ome who sat with her head down, staring miserably into her own lap. Her hair was unkempt and her eyes were dark with circles. She breathed through an open mouth as if stupefied or drugged. “Something has clearly happened to her,” explained the Queen, “but she would not tell the servant this morning – and she has yet to tell me. Perhaps _you_ can wrestle it from her, Captain?”

Brush moved toward the table, setting down her plate and cup. She pulled out a chair and sat, keeping her eyes fixed on the human. Ome looked up, then back down at her lap, blinking and breathing slowly. “What is it?” asked the Captain, running on little energy and even littler patience. “What happened?” Ome glanced up again, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. Not amused, Brush turned away from their guest and focused on Nim. The Queen sat tall and regal at the end of the table, delicately eating her sugar pods that someone managed to scrounge up. “Happy to see you’re eating,” said Brush, giving Nim a nod of approval. The Queen ignored her. “Majesty,” she continued, glossing over the brief, awkward silence, “we must discuss the peace treaty. That way I can expedite my next rendezvous with Spring.”

“Not during breakfast,” replied Nim, curtly.

Brush furrowed her brow. “Well, of _course_. Understandable. But we need a schedule. You and I should meet once a day to talk it over. It’ll take long enough to negotiate the treaty.”

Nim sipped her honey water. Licking her lips, she sighed, “Very well. Once a day, at midday. We meet. We talk. Does that satisfy you?”

“Certainly, majesty. We could–”

“–I need to leave!” Ome’s voice, somewhat shrill this morning, belted across the broad, fancy table, interrupting the menial conversation. It bounced high against the walls of the dining hall, causing the Captain and the Queen to jump in their seats.

“_Excuse_ me?” asked Brush, annoyed by the sudden outburst.

“I don’t belong here. I’m not _from_ here! I need to leave. I need to find my way _home_.” Ome looked at Nim. “I – I need to find one of those _things_.”

“Things?” asked Brush.

“Those – da – doctiles.”

“Dactyls,” corrected Nim.

“_Dactyls_,” repeated Ome. She rubbed her head. It hurt from the lack of sleep, as if something invasive gnawed at her brain.

Nim, remembering her conclusion from the assembly a day prior, hinted to Brush with a loaded proposal. “Captain – have you any suggestions? Our guest says she needs to leave. _Where_ could she go?” The Queen’s voice was littered with insinuation.

“Nowhere safe,” replied Brush, acting as though they hadn’t already discussed it.

Nim narrowed her eyes. “True. Safety is a rare commodity in these lands. Regardless, _where_ could Ome go for _assistance_? She obviously wants to go home. And as much as I would prefer it, I have no ability to send her there.”

Ome’s stomach bubbled and growled. She reached for the cheese and a slice of bread.

“There’s one place she could go, if she’s looking for help,” sighed Brush. She turned toward Ome, gazing at the human with unimpressed contemplation. “I can’t guarantee he’ll have what you seek, but he has resources that we don’t.”

“Where?” asked Ome, biting hard into her bread. She gobbled it down hungrily.

“His name is Artorius. He’s exiled deep in the woods. A carriage can take you there. But it won’t be ready until tomorrow morning. Palace carriages are all in use today – funeral and such.”

Ome nodded.

“Brush,” said Nim, “Remind me. What time is Mul’s burial?”

“Within the next two hours.” The Captain snatched a napkin from the table, dabbing her mouth. “Cinny will be there, but she’s still a wreck. Poor thing won’t sleep. Afraid one of those demons will crawl back through her window.”

Ome’s ears perked. “Wait – what happened?” she asked, suddenly interested. “Who died? What demons?”

Nim and Brush gave one another a look. They realized Ome hadn’t been briefed on the Sleepers since her arrival. A risky oversight. _All_ citizens and guests should be aware of such a threat.

“We have a problem here in the Fore district,” explained Nim. “There are creatures called Sleepers. They are a type of demon – and they are deadly. No Yoth has survived an attack. And unfortunately, another citizen of ours was attacked recently. His name was Mul. His burial is today.”

“Where do they come from?” asked Ome. Her mind wandered to the memory of the creature in her room. _Where_ the hell did it come from?

Nim and Brush looked at one another again. Unexcited to explain the details, the Queen fell silent, casually poking at the food on her plate. She was not keen on reliving moments from the past. Brush saw the look in her eyes and promptly explained, “A crack opened in the ground many years ago.” She paused, gathering the details from memory. “It happened right after the King and Queen split our kingdom into two districts. The Sleepers come from this crack. We call it the Yield. And these creatures, well, they attack only _us_ – the Fore district. Though the Yield _is_ located closer to the Wheel district, their city is not under attack by Sleepers. Wheel built a fortress, guarded by smoke and machines that produce fire. The Sleepers won’t go near it.”

“No one has survived an attack?” asked Ome.

“Never,” replied Brush. “They’re too powerful. Too vicious.”

“Too quiet,” muttered Nim.

“_Quiet_?” asked Ome.

Brush nodded. “Sleepers have no capability to speak. They can’t even grunt or make sounds. They’re dumb beasts.” The Captain stared off, giving a heavy sigh. “Dumb and ferocious.”

Puzzled, Ome scratched an eyebrow in her usual nervous sort of way. “Why exactly _did_ the King and Queen split the kingdom?”

Brush’s eyes met with Nim’s. The Queen shifted in her seat uncomfortably. Brush made an attempt to answer, but Nim interrupted. “That is quite alright,” she said. “I will explain.” Nodding, Brush gestured for Nim to continue. “As you know, we were a whole kingdom at one time and I have explained that King Mer was my husband. Technically, he is _still_ my husband. But we are no longer under the same rule. We had _different_ ideas about how a kingdom was to be run. In Lot, Yoth pride themselves on working _with_ nature, not against it. That is how we stay fed, clothed, and alive. My husband had alternative suggestions. He wanted to build machines. Machines to cut down the trees, he said. Machines to move us from one place to the next – without a horse. Some would fly, he said. They would move faster. And I argued with him, for I saw what happened as a result of the machines in the old world – _your_ world.” Nim took another sip of honey water. “As I have already told you, the old world was where Mer came from. And in Lot he wanted to incorporate so many things from it. And so, we argued. We grew bitter. Eventually, Mer wanted to abandon Lot and have us both retire to the old world. That would have meant abandoning my people. But Mer insisted. He said it would save _us_ from heartbreak – that the pressure of running a kingdom was tearing us apart.” The Queen fell quiet. Her eyes stared off through the dark holes of her mask. “I remember standing there, refusing to go with him through the Dactyl. I refused to leave the Yoth. I told him they were like my children. He was so angry. Mer burst into a rage, and he destroyed every Dactyl across the kingdom. He did it to _trap _himself here with me. And to trap_ me_ here with him. It made little sense. I was not going anywhere. Perhaps he just wanted to make sure of it. I was furious and ordered my guards to remove him from Fore. And they did. They listened to _me_. Not to him. He married _into_ power. I _am_ that power. Mer realized he had _no_ power without me by his side.”

Brush interjected, trying to subdue a very obvious tone of guilt. “That happened not long after Pen’s assault on Fore. Things were already tense for the King and Queen. Fore was trying to rebuild.”

“Pen?” asked Ome.

“Nevermind,” answered Brush. She crossed her arms, turning away from the human. How Ome managed to irritate her with such little effort.

Nim sighed, taking a moment to continue her story. “Regretful, my husband apologized for destroying the Dactyls. He promised to rebuild them, claiming never to suggest that we abandon our culture, nor ask me to abandon the Yoth, ever again. But it was too late. My trust was lost. I had Mer escorted from Fore at once. With nowhere to go, he remained outside of the kingdom, calling out to any citizens still loyal to their King. A man named Spring, who had more than his fair share of influence over my husband, was to become Mer’s top Captain. Spring abandoned Fore, and he persuaded many others to follow. They moved westward, establishing the Wheel district. And there – in Wheel – Mer used his magic and technology to build all the machines he had originally wanted to build in Fore. And, as I warned, those machines destroyed their vegetation. It polluted their water and air. They were unable to feed themselves or stay healthy. My husband _begged_ for help. So, for a time, I provided Wheel with food. That was – well – until I cut off their supply.”

“Cut off their supply? Why?” asked Ome.

“The Sleepers,” answered Nim. “The Yield opened up right outside of Wheel. At first I thought it was Mer’s fault. I thought that whatever he did to the land must have awakened them. But, deep down, I _felt_ something. The Yield had opened for another reason. Not long after…” the Queen trailed off.

“After what?” asked Ome.

“After our love for one another had died,” Nim answered with a bizarre quality in her voice.

Ome gave the Queen a strange look, as if she suddenly grew a third arm.

“That is the best explanation I can give!” asserted Nim, realizing the human looked her as if she were crazy. “Our love died somewhere between Fore and Wheel. And there at the foot of Wheel’s fortress, a crack swelled and burst from the ground. Demons came pouring out, _feeding_ on our people. The King built the fortress higher to keep them out, adding flames to its perimeter. The Sleepers stayed away from Wheel, turning their attention only to _my_ district! After that, many more Fore citizens left, seeking the safety of Wheel’s partition. Then it was _I_ who begged for help! I _begged_ Mer to build us a fortress to protect _my_ people! But he refused. He would _not_ help _us_ keep the demons away. And so – I cut their food supply. And then the rest became war…”

“But why?” asked Ome.

“_Why_?” repeated Nim, shaking her head, confused by the simplicity of the question.

“Why did he refuse to help you?” Ome clarified.

“A number of reasons,” answered the Queen. “I suspected Mer wanted _all_ my people to leave Fore and join his district. But _his_ excuse was that he understood the pollutant results of Wheel’s technology. The smoke and fire, the machines and their filth – all that waste. Mer insisted _I_ was right all along! He said he did not want Fore to become corrupted with the same ash and dust, destroying what healthy land was left! Should we find peace again, he told me, Wheel depended on the sanctity of Fore to provide food. He _acted_ like he had _my_ best interests in mind – but how _dare_ he insult my intelligence! Keeping Fore’s land intact is an investment for _him_! Leaving us vulnerable to the Sleepers! Those demons will desecrate our bodies right in our sleep, but Fore’s land remains unharmed. Mer is just _waiting_ _it_ _out_. Waiting for all of us to die. And then the land, the crops, the food – it will all be _his_.” Nim’s voice began to shake, and she raised a hand to the dome of her mask, attempting to rub her forehead through its thick exterior.

“Maybe this conversation needs to end…” cautioned Brush.

Ignoring her Captain, Nim continued, “Don’t you see, human? Either way, our lives are over – whether in the grip of filth and starvation, or in those creatures that rape and feed on us!”

“That’s enough!” yelled Brush, standing to her feet. The Captain stopped herself, apologetically raising her hands as she breathed slowly, trying to calm down. Bowing her head, Brush lowered herself to her seat. She said nothing more.

“And that’s why I’m glad to have _her_ as Captain,” mumbled Nim, gesturing to the outburst. “She’s far more _honest_, albeit insubordinate, than Captain Spring ever was.”

“Spring was the Captain?” asked Ome. “What were you back then?” She looked at Brush with curiosity.

“I _was_ the Captain _back then_,” Brush sourly replied, annoyed by the question. “I _am_ the Captain now. Spring was the second Captain of the guard. At that time, we had two. Our kingdom was much bigger – it wasn’t split in two. Unfortunately, Spring also acted as the King’s _advisor_.”

“And your lover,” added Nim, coldly.

Brush shot her Queen a hard look, then bowed her head. “Yes…”

“Two Captains? And in love?” asked Ome. Then she added, “Didn’t work out?”

“Of course not,” Brush snapped.

Nim burst out laughing. Brush’s eyes grew wide, knowing what thoughts entered the Queen’s head at that moment. “Dear human,” said Nim, gesturing with a glass of honey water as if drunk with criticism, “one cannot _work_ anything _out _with their lover if they happen to be a married woman.”

“You cheated? You had a husband?” asked Ome. This conversation was better than a soap opera.

“I do,” Brush answered, displeased with the topic.

“_Do_? You mean you _still_ have a husband? Where is he?”

“Not here,” replied the Captain. “And unlike Nim, I don’t care to discuss it any further – especially with _you_.”

Ome, convinced that Brush undoubtedly hated her, abandoned the rest of her questions and finished her bread. Then she started on the cheese, feeling better once the food reached her stomach. It settled in like a forgotten friend, giving her back a fraction of strength. Unfortunately, she knew the lack of sleep would sit with her all day. Ome, again, rubbed her head, straining to massage clarity back into her brain.

“They’re parasites of the heart,” Brush mumbled.

“Huh?” asked Ome.

“The Sleepers,” replied Brush. “You _were _asking about them earlier. They prey on our hearts. They rip them from our insides, feeding on the very pulse that keeps us alive. They’re cruel, brutal things. If you’re wise – and I’m unsure if humans are – you’ll protect yourself.”

“What if,” Ome asked with reluctance in her voice, “someone _survived_ an attack? Maybe, say, they overpowered a Sleeper?”

Brush rested her chin on her hand, peering questionably at the human. “_Overpowered_?” she asked. The Captain’s eyes squinted with confusion. “Then that person would not be Yoth – nor a person for that matter. That person would be a monster, immune to the Sleeper’s control over _our_ kind. And the Sleeper wouldn’t see it as prey, I guess. Maybe more of an equal – another predator to fight for food. Anything able to overpower a Sleeper would be a threat to us. It would hunt Yoth, I assume. And aside from trolls, there _is_ no other predator that hunts us.”

“I see…” said Ome.

* * *

At the Queen’s request, Ome was to attend Mul’s burial with the excuse that attendance would educate her on Yoth customs. Though Ome was eager to return home, and did _not_ consider her displacement a cultural excursion, she complied. If nothing else, she hoped to use the opportunity to map an escape route, should she ever need to run from anything as terrifying as what she encountered the previous night. In addition to a formal invitation, Ome was also given an escort for the burial. He was an unassuming Yoth named Port, young and uninterested in the human’s presence. When she tried to make conversation, all he gave were short answers. At first she wondered if he was simply rude, then she thought perhaps he mourned Mul’s death. But when Ome realized the burial sparked no interest in him either, she understood that Port was just incredibly dull.

“Let’s go,” he yawned. Chimes rang from the funeral procession as Ome followed him through the palace courtyard. They exited through a grand entrance connecting to the main city street. A lengthy march of horse-drawn carriages, citizens on foot, and motionless onlookers lined the road. The crowd stretched from the heart of the city to a shrine resting high atop a hill. The hill was far off in the distance, but not so far that Ome lost sight of it.

Meanwhile, the Queen remained in her palace, looking down from a balcony, acknowledging yet another death caused by the Sleepers. Citizens gazed up at her from below, entranced by the sight of their sovereign. Some had yet to meet Nim, and so the chance to see her was a rare opportunity. Others, whether they had met her or not, revered the Queen as godlike. And for everyone else, Nim’s presence was especially hard to miss due to her extravagant clothing and fanned mask. Like the palace itself, she displayed herself lavishly from quite the distance.

Port moved quickly to queue up with the citizens on foot. He waved at Ome to follow behind, but soon disappeared amidst the crowd. She stretched her neck, peeking around the backs of heads, but every head was covered with the same green hair. What made it worse was that every citizen dressed in white for the occasion. She had nothing white to wear – just the same old black sweatshirt and jeans. More humiliating than that, Ome’s arms hung sleeveless and bare from ugly, tattered holes. Each Yoth who caught a glimpse of her gave a bewildered double-take, blinking their apple green eyes and shaking their heads.

Embarrassed, and no longer within range of Port, Ome stepped out of line, moving farther away from the street. She pushed through dozens of Fore citizens who stared at her with confusion. All those green eyes locked onto her like guided missiles, and the indiscretion made her sick to her stomach. Ome panicked and ran, unsure of which way to go. Bolting toward the palace, it was the largest target within scope. She darted between two guards, sprinting across the royal courtyard.

Slowing her pace, she bent forward to catch her breath. It was evident Ome ended up somewhere behind the castle walls, among the trees nested against the palace. She recognized the tower above her, realizing it was the _same_ tower across from her bedroom window. Shading her eyes with one hand, she glanced up high, searching from left to right. Her room must have been among the dozens scattered along the wall. Before she could locate its window, however, Ome noticed something. One particular stretch of the palace wall had deep claw marks cascading all the way to the ground. The marks were choppy and sporadic, leading to a smashed cellar door. The door’s wood appeared jagged, sticking up from the earth like a distorted, splintery mouth. _Holy shit_, thought Ome. Already in a panic from the crowded funeral procession, she clenched her teeth, breathing in and out like an exhausted animal. It was to calm herself, though it only made her look ridiculous. _Just my luck. I managed to get turned around, ending up in a place more terrifying than a crowd._

Ome’s eyes followed the marks farther down, right into the hole. She heard a noise from below. It was brief, but it was there. It sounded like movement. Inching closer to the cellar’s opening, she leaned forward. Dried leaves spilled out from the cellar’s steps, decorating the outline of its shattered door as if the subbasement had vomited them across the palace grounds. The leaves disappeared into the darkness like a trail that led to a familiar place of childhood fears – a place where those same monsters waited to pull Ome’s legs between the slats of her basement stairs. As she leaned a little closer, gently shifting her body, the leaves crunched beneath her shoes. It was debatable as to whether or not she should wait for wicked things to emerge. Then something shuffled around, beyond Ome’s vision. It moved against the deep, black throat of the cellar. She strained to see._ There_. That thing was _in there_.

As she approached the cellar stairs, Ome instinctively reached for a light switch, but found none. Instead, her eyes caught sight of a lantern hanging from the entryway. She reached to it, twisting the knob until a flame grew, illuminating the cellar. It didn’t take long to spot the creature. He was lying in the shadows of what appeared to be a small storage facility. Flat on his back, wings spread on the cellar floor. His eyes were closed, and he barely moved. _I really nailed him with that mace, _Ome determined.

A cloud passed above, and the sun glinted through the broken doorway, reflecting light from his skin. His red hair stuck to his left cheek as he breathed heavily through a slack-jawed mouth. This creature was undoubtedly fast asleep. As Ome stared at him from a short distance, she heard the sounds of the procession above. The funeral moved through the street, escorted by ringing chimes and muffles sobs. At that moment, she remembered her conversation with Brush, explaining how dangerous this creature was to the Yoth.

_Don’t be afraid, _Ome thought. _Whatever you do, don’t panic. _But she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to interact with the creature, but she didn’t want to interrupt the funeral and cause mass hysteria. _This thing needs to leave or someone else may get killed. _Her conscience yelled over and over, demanding that she not just leave him there. What if he woke up and attacked another Yoth? One funeral was enough for the day. Ome couldn’t live with the guilt – not if he ended up climbing through _another_ window that night. She wondered if, perhaps, after what happened in her bedroom, this thing could possibly be afraid of her. And if not – she still carried her mace in her pocket. Just in case.

“Hey!” said Ome. Hesitant to scream, she made an awkward attempt at whispering loudly. “Get out of here!” She grabbed a piece of shattered wood and chucked it at the Sleeper. It didn’t hit him, but smacked hard against a shelf, knocking away dust and granite which cracked loudly against the floor. “Go!” Ome grew louder. She threw another chip at the shelf, unsure about actually taking aim _at_ the creature. As she kept throwing more and more wood pieces, Ome couldn’t believe herself. _I must be stupid!_ But she wanted him awake and gone. That was her logic and she stuck to it. “Wake up!” she screamed. “Get out!” Bending down, she picked up a stone and threw it. Then she found another, and another – throwing them wildly all around the creature, shouting angrily at him as if he were a stray cat digging in her garden.

The Sleeper rolled over, his wings popping out from beneath him, bending into themselves like alien appendages. They sandwiched against his back as he tossed, stirring from a lousy sleep. He sat forward, lifting a hand to his forehead, rubbing it gently. Blinking once or twice, he cocked his neck and looked at Ome with those black, inhuman eyes. She froze. Slowly, he stood. This creature was much taller than she remembered. His body was no different from that of a man’s and his face was slender and fair. He had pointed ears and, of course, those solid, black eyes. The Sleeper watched Ome watching him. She was unsure what to do next.

He clasped his hands together, peering curiously at her. Then the Sleeper shook his head, placing his hand over his chest. He gave Ome a modest bow which appeared to be a gesture of politeness. Regardless, she was unsure what to make of it. Was it some kind of trick? “So,” she muttered, still gripping a rock in one hand, “you’ll _leave_, then?”

He nodded and flashed a bewitching smile. In less than a second, the Sleeper zipped toward Ome with a quickness that no human possessed. He moved in so close that she nearly fell backward. She yelped, then flinched, afraid he would attack. Instead, he squeezed her left hand, shook the rock from it, then raised her fingers to his eyes. Nervous, but thankful he didn’t rip her apart, Ome watched as the creature pulled her injured finger closer, inspecting it with curiosity. She yanked her hand away, asking, “What are you _doing_?”

Unable to reply, and perhaps somewhat ignoring her inquiry, the Sleeper reached forward, running his fingers through Ome’s black hair. He gently grabbed a clump, leaning in for a closer look, just as he did with her injury.

At that moment, Ome realized something – he was trying to figure out _what_ she was. “I’m human,” she said, pulling her hair from his hand. She swept it behind her ear. Lifting her pinky finger, she added, “I was hurt a long time ago. It doesn’t hurt now.” The Sleeper stood uncomfortably close. His forehead was less than an inch from Ome’s and the tip of his nose lightly touched her own. He smiled, moving his face closer, brushing his lips gently against her cheek. The sun behind him danced through the doorway and for a brief, albeit odd, moment, Ome didn’t feel scared. “I know you’re a demon,” she said. “One of those _Sleepers_ I was told about.”

The creature’s only response was the echo of his slow, steady breathing as he smiled at the human standing before him. Then he nodded, amused by her observation. Ome raised her eyebrows, shocked that he understood. However, remembering her task at hand, she scrunched them back down over her eyes, resuming position. “You need to _leave_! I’m warning you!”

The Sleeper pulled away and walked up the cellar steps. Ome hurried, following him toward the sunshine, hoping he wouldn’t dash off through the funeral procession, disrupting a rather sensitive time for the people of Fore. He was obviously a cold blooded killer – what would prevent him from causing panic? The two exited the cellar, bathed in daytime once again. Beneath pale rays of sunlight, the Sleeper shielded his eyes until they adjusted. Looking up, he pointed high, aiming his gesture at Ome’s bedroom window. Confused, she didn’t know how to respond. “Yeah… that’s my room up there. _You_ know that. You were there. Remember? I sure as hell do.”

The creature eagerly reached for Ome, grabbing both of her hands, holding them against his chest. His skin felt surprisingly warm. Stunned, she assumed he’d feel cold and rigid – like a zombie or vampire. Not so. The Sleeper was filled with a strong heat that radiated through his skin. Puzzled, she asked, “What – what are you _doing_?”

He shook his head, as though frustrated by the communication barrier, and repeated the gesture, pointing at the window, then embracing Ome’s hands. After some thought, she reasoned that he was trying to _ask_ her something. It wasn’t specifically about the _room_, but instead the question referred to _her._ Ome mulled over everything the Sleeper had done – inspecting her fingers and hair, pointing to the first place he found her, and then referring her back to him, albeit awkwardly with no respect given to her personal space, whatsoever. Then the proverbial light bulb flicked on.

“_Where_ do I come from?” she asked.

He nodded.

“And who _am_ I?”

He nodded again.

_Strange_, thought Ome. _Such common questions when meeting a new person_. She didn’t expect a thing like _him_ to ask them. She hesitated to answer the Sleeper right away. In that time, he kept his warm grip around her hands, enveloping her small wrists and fingers between his palms.

Still smiling, as though he found a new toy, the Sleeper led her closer to the castle wall. As they walked, she answered, “My name’s Ome. I’m not from here, if that’s what you’re asking. I came here through a Dactyl. That’s what the Queen called it, anyway. I live in the city of Cambridge.” She hesitated a moment, unsure if that made any sense. “It’s – it’s in another world. The Queen called my world the _old_ world.” Ome looked down at her feet, unsure of what to say next. She suddenly felt awkward. _Embarrassed_, really. “Sorry,” she added. “I don’t know if you understood any of that.”

To her surprise, the Sleeper listened intently. But she was unsure as to what else to say. “So,” Ome continued, “who – uh – are you? What’s _your_ name?” Attempting small talk, she stumbled over the question with fragility in her voice. Feeling idiotic, however, she remembered he couldn’t provide an answer.

Glancing around, the Sleeper let go of Ome’s hands. He appeared to be hunting for something to aid his response. Spotting the castle wall, he inched closer to it, reaching out with a flat palm. He patted at its wooden surface.

“What?” she asked. “The castle?”

He shook his head.

“The wood?”

He shook his head again.

“The wall?”

The Sleeper smiled, pointed at Ome, and nodded.

“The wall?” she asked. It dawned on her. “_Wall_.” Ome lifted an eyebrow. “Your name is _Wall_?”

The Sleeper placed a hand on his naked abdomen and bowed.

“Well,” said Ome, “I need to know something, _Wall_.”

His eyes locked with hers, eager to attempt another clever answer for the chatty human.

“I need to know that you’ll _leave_. Just get out of the city. If you _hurt_ anyone else…”

Wall raised his right hand and nodded. Then he moved closer to Ome, yet again, his black, curious eyes hovering mere inches from her face. She felt the sudden warmth of his body, this time from her head to her navel. Wall smiled and it was alluringly intense, almost contagious. Ome studied his expression and found no trace of hostility. The Sleeper didn’t seem conniving – just eager to be near her.

Without warning, Wall placed his hand over Ome’s ribs, feeling for the pulse of her heart. Having little clue as to what he was doing, she tried to pull away. His grip was firm, disallowing her to move. “Hey now,” she said, her voice trembling. “I thought we had an understanding.” She nervously waited, hoping _this_ wasn’t a trick, either.

Wall’s face lit up as thought he uncovered hidden treasure. The beat of a _human_ heart – it was unlike anything he had felt before. Such a captivating pulse – much different from the pulse of a Yoth. The Sleeper closed his eyes as if he tasted something refreshingly addictive, then removed his hand. Turning away, Wall dashed through the trees, disappearing into the woods behind the palace. Ome couldn’t explain it, but she _believed_ his promise. Or perhaps she _wanted_ to believe it. In any case, she hoped – deep down – that Wall wouldn’t return to Fore to harm another citizen again.

* * *

Brush watched as the castle garrison carried out Mul’s burial. What a waste of time and resources, she thought. Despite the fact that Mul was a former guard and owed a ceremonial funeral, the Captain grew weary of drawing attention to the Sleeper attacks, and felt everyone’s time was better spent ensuring it didn’t happen again. Unfortunately, the Sleepers were becoming clever. They knew how to _search_ for weaknesses. When the eastern wind extinguished Mul’s bedroom candle, that she-demon knew exactly when to strike. Brush began to realize the attacks weren’t random, as Deputy Leaf often wrote in his reports. They occurred when the situation was just right – when someone was careless. And today that carelessness resulted in a Fore banner sprawled over a fresh gravesite. This was nothing if not a sign of failure.

After the ceremony, the Captain hurried back to the palace via carriage. As Whipp, the coachman, pulled up to the main entrance, Brush jumped down, holding up an index finger to signal his attention. “A moment of your time,” she instructed.

Whipp set down his reins and jumped to the ground, following Brush a few steps from his carriage. He casually placed his hands on his hips, stretching his back from sitting for much too long. “Captain?” asked Whipp.

“I need your carriage here in the morning. At dawn.”

“And where do you need to go in the morning?”

“It’s not for me,” said Brush. “It’s for the human. Take her to Artorius.”

“_Artorius_? But that’s–”

“–He’s not too far.”

“No. He’s not. But _that’s_ a dangerous part of the woods.”

“I’ll send a guard with you–”

“–One guard!” exclaimed the coachman. “Do you expect _any_ of us to return?”

Frustrated, Brush continued, “_One_ guard with you, but you’ll be followed and watched. I don’t want the human to realize the precautions we’re taking. She’s _anxious_. All the time. It’s irritating.” Sighing, the Captain squinted in the sunlight, shaking her head at Whipp. “Weak. She’s _weak_. But the dismal point I’m trying to make is that she’s no use to us if she panics the way she does.”

“None of us will be. Not if we’re hunted.” Whipp shook his head, biting his lower lip with disapproval.

“Which is why you’ll be heavily guarded. If this woman is who she _says_ she is, we want her to keep thinking she can find a way home. If she’s not, then we have an infiltrator on our hands. Someone I’d like to put in chains sooner than later. But for now we need to proceed with caution.”

Tilting his head, Whipp sighed. “So the human’s either a commodity or a risk?”

“One or the other,” nodded Brush. “We’re not certain yet.”

“And your solution is that I take her to Artorius?”

“She needs answers.” Brush threw her hands up in the air. “We don’t have any.”

“And he does?”

The Captain shrugged, shaking her head. “What do you want me to tell you? These orders come directly from the Queen. Do it.”

Nodding, Whipp understood. He wasn’t happy about it, but he knew his place. Regardless, far be it from him to blindly accept orders without a little defiance. Whipp was old. Over the years he’d seen orders followed that shouldn’t have been. A few questions didn’t hurt, even if they didn’t make a difference. It gave him peace of mind. Returning to his carriage, Whipp listened as Brush reassured him that she’d send protection. He waved at Brush, picked up the reins, and gave them a strong crack. The horse shook her neck, jostling her mane as if an insect bit her behind the ears. She clopped her hooves against the cobblestone and Whipp’s carriage slowly rolled off into the distance.

Brush watched until it was out of sight, then headed for the palace courtyard. Exhausted, she was eager to return to her private quarters. Despite her exhaustion, however, she walked briskly, entering through the main hall of the castle. Passersby said hello, some even gave a salute, positioned at a standstill like mannequins. Brush distributed quick nods here and there, rushing past the servants and guards. She continued toward her room. Reaching a large staircase, she hustled along, moving closer to the top. Spotting her door at the center of the main hallway, she hurried forth.

Passing the Queen’s room, the Captain slowed up, stopping at her own quarters. Brush’s room remained near the Nim’s, though she rarely spent nights there anymore. She used to. When the war against Wheel first began, she spent every night there. The safety of the Queen was, and always had been, her first priority. Paranoia and depression eventually led Nim to restrict access from everyone _but_ Brush. Needless to say, the Captain craved time away from her majesty. The only place to find relief was back in the barracks. Thebarracks, thought Brush. She loved the smell of its old wood, and the sound of soldiers sharpening their blades, murmuring to one another as friends – as confidantes – would do. Training in the corners, pulling jokes on comrades, or even the smallest acts of kindness like tidying the bed sheets of a soldier who happened to be running late. _Those_ things. Brush loved _those_ things about the barracks. They weren’t lavish, but somewhere between the polishing of armor and waking up to the glint of the morning sun as a group, she found a luxuriance that couldn’t be bought.

The Captain unlocked her room with a key she carried on her waist belt. Turning the knob, she opened the door and stepped inside. Locking the entrance behind her, Brush returned the key to her belt, unbuckled it, and then removed the rest of her attire: metal gauntlets, greaves, breastplate, plackart, tassets, and more. Often times, she grew tired of Nim’s complaints about the heavy crown. The Queen had no idea what it felt like to balance steel pauldrons on one’s shoulders. The Captain flexed an arm, inspecting her bicep. To wear such clothing everyday resulted in quite the buildup of muscle. Her body was firm and lean, yet it curved smoothly around her breasts and hips. Brush eyed her gear. Yoth armor was far from organic. King Mer had designed it – back when he ruled Fore. Luckily for the Captain and her men, Nim kept the armor after the split. It served them in more than one risky circumstance, maintaining their protection much better than bone and leather. It was because of the armor Brush recognized that not everything derived from magic and technology was inherently evil.

She tossed her belt to the bed, leaving the rest of her clothing scattered across the floor. Then, she reached up, pulling pins from her hair. The Captain ran her fingers over her head, jostling the hair free from the bun tightly clinging to her scalp. Soft, green locks fell below her shoulders, shimmering prettily beneath the lantern light. Bangs covered Brush’s forehead, straight across the brow, like an emerald headband. She sighed. Picking up a folded letter sitting atop a long chest at the foot of her bed, she opened it and her eyes skimmed the words.

_Brush,_

_I am glad that we are finally coming to terms with a peace treaty. When your Queen has identified her demands, I hope to put an end to this war so that our cities can become whole again. It will be nice to see you and to speak on friendlier terms. I have missed you._

_I do look forward to seeing you once again. I enjoy our talks…_

_Spring._

  
  


Brush read and re-read the last two sentences. Then she folded the note and placed it on her bed. Kneeling down to the locked chest, she flipped a latch and opened it. Reaching in, she pulled out a long piece of cloth wrapped around something hard and heavy. Sliding the cloth down and away from the object, Brush revealed a black and gold hilt. At the hilt’s tip was a pommel engraved with miniscule etchings. At the other end of the hilt began the stretch of a blade – its flawless metal gave no reflection but instead looked milky and white. It, too, had etchings delicately scribbled into its enchanted medium. Bewitching, Grehm rested in Brush’s hands like an extraordinary treasure. Setting it down, she pulled out another note stored from beneath the cloth. It was pressed between the wrap and the Sword. She opened it, reading the words with muted heartache.

_Dearest Brush,_

_This object may help you to gain leverage over the Wheel district. They’re aware of this weapon’s true power. I’ll allow you to take it into your possession for now. No harm should come to this Sword, for it is sacred and must not fall into the wrong hands. Should you ever need the proper hands to wield it, we’ll discuss that at a later time. Though, I hope it should never come to that. I’ve been exiled once, I don’t wish to extend my punishment._

_I hope we discuss many more things at a later time. You know that I love you deeply. I will always love you. I miss you, Brush. Dearly. Please forgive yourself for the past. I have forgiven you. You will always remain in my heart._

_With all my love…_

_your husband,_

_\- Artorius_


	9. Chapter 9

Brush hurried the Sword to the palace archives to be examined by the Fore historians. As she entered, straining under the weight of the weapon, she saw a team of eight Yoth working diligently. They moved excitedly through the rows of shelves and stacks of books. Each historian scoured the shelves, searching for a particular book, and when they found it, they gave an excited cry, threw the text into a pile, and then searched again for another.

“Careful, Stalag! Some of these tomes are older than Fore, itself! Mind the binding!” called the Book Matron, a kindly Yoth, whose green hair bore streaks of grey and silver. At the sight of Brush, she beamed a welcoming smile. “Ah! We have company. Welcome, Captain. We’ve been waiting!”

Brush returned the smile. “Hello, Vesper. I’ve brought something for you.” She removed the bundled Sword from her back.

“Yes, bring it this way. Clear a place, all! Make room!” The energetic woman led Brush to the center of the room where a table had been cleared. “Move these books, Petal! Lay out the tarp!” The seven historians parted at her very word. Brush was no stranger to the obedience and efficiency of Vesper’s team, but witnessing it reminded her of Fore prior to the divide – orderly and enthusiastic. Furthermore, the palace historians were anything but dusty and irrelevant. Fore thrived on its lore and history.

As ordered, a large canvas tarp was brought to the center of the room and unrolled across the table, making for a clean, bare surface on which to rest the Sword. “We’ve been preparing for this since yesterday,” Stalag casually mentioned to Brush. The Captain nodded agreeably. With a bounce in her step, Stalag then rushed to clear the area, pulling away chairs.

“Oh don’t try to impress her,” scolded Vesper. “Our Captain is no stranger to hard work and preparation. What have you done but pull books? And now what? Rearranging furniture, are we?” Stalag turned pale and hurried back to work. Brush stared wide-eyed at Vesper, who only winked back. “Crack that whip, eh Captain? Keep the troops on their toes, right? It’s good for their senses.”

Laughing, Brush felt rather grateful to work with someone like Vesper for a change.

“Here we are!” the Matron announced. “Let us _see_ this legendary weapon!”

Brush laid the bundle on the table. As she loosened the binding, unfolding it carefully, the blade of the Sword glimmered in the candlelight. The historians gathered around to watch. They dared not to touch the Sword. Admittedly, their hesitations were fueled less by awe and respect and more by the avoidance of the Matron’s punishment.

“_Dashosgrehm_,” Vesper read from a tome on the far side of the room. “_The Sword over all lands_. Its name means the _death of motion_. Dismal, indeed, wouldn’t you say, Captain?”

Brush was fixated on the weapon as she nodded mechanically to the Matron’s comment. However, in all truth, the Captain wasn’t listening. As the apprentices, who had never before seen Grehm, wondered at the artistry of the hilt’s ornate markings, Brush lost herself within the scope of its blade. Her eyes followed along its sharp edges, whisked away by the texture of its smooth metal. The very sight of Grehm flooded Brush with memories of her husband. She remembered her astonishment when Artorius proposed to her all those years ago. They hadn’t known each other for very long, and yet in such a short time, wedding plans were made. It all seemed so sudden. Although a married woman, Brush’s career as Captain remained intact. She felt the change was good for her, nearly forgetting what it was like to be _desirable_. Before Artorius, she’d neglected that _woman_ beneath the cold weight of her armor – untouched and unfulfilled. Artorius managed to see past Brush’s rank as Captain, admiring the true woman he so deeply loved.

But that was a long time ago. Brush ejected the thought from her mind. Things were different now. However, since Artorius had resurfaced, delivering Grehm without so much as a hint of his arrival, she thought more of him. What _was_ his intention, she wondered. If he was trying to signal his wife’s interest, then he had succeeded. But something gnawed at Brush. She wondered _who_ Artorius was really trying to help – the district or _himself_?

“Captain!” called Vesper. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” answered Brush, stiffly glancing around. “Just studying the blade.”

“What a relic to dwell on, eh?” the Matron hurried over, book in hand. “This Sword has quite an elusive history! So many books about it – but the key’s in sorting out the _facts_ from – well – the _horseshit_!”

“Is it the real Sword?” asked Brush. “Our Queen wanted authentication before we proceed.”

“Its markings match this illustration,” observed a historian, pouring over a stack of documents. She held the drawing over Grehm, pointing to sections of the hilt where the sketching was especially detailed. “Looks like the real thing, Matron.”

“Of course it’s the real thing,” chided Vesper. “This isn’t the first time I’ve laid eyes on this weapon.” Vesper paused, pointing a crooked finger at her apprentices. “You younger ones take note. Dashosgrehm hasn’t been viewed since before the schism. And its history goes back even further. This Sword, Grehm, is legendary.” The historians each leaned in for a closer look. Two stood by, hurriedly sketching the Sword from different angles, detailing its resplendence. “Now, most of those legends are absolute claptrap,” Vesper continued. “There are books, even in our own library, that claim Grehm was created by lightning, or even pulled from a stone. One manuscript tells the story of a man who died wielding Grehm, and then rose from the dead.” The Book Matron paused, chuckling to herself. “These are children’s stories. They have no truth to them.”

“Then, Matron, what do we know to be _true_ about Grehm?” asked Kio, a typically shy apprentice, but presently motivated to speak up on behalf of the Sword’s ambiguity. “How can we _know_ what to believe?”

“We begin with firsthand accounts,” Vesper proclaimed. “Some of us have seen it before. Fewer have been close to it. And fewer still have been close to those who _wield_ it.” She winked once more to Brush, who shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Contrary to myth, Grehm’s power doesn’t unleash its efficacy in battle. In other words, fighting with the blade does _not_ invoke its hidden gift. Even the finest swordsman in all of Lot may not be able to harness Dashosgrehm.” Vesper gestured to the Captain, knowing full well that Brush was just the right example.

Stalag raised her hand. “Then how does one… _unleash_ it?”

“Ah! Good question,” replied the Book Matron, having obviously baited the inquiry. “The last person to harness its power didn’t carry the weapon into any battle. Artorius simply picked it up, carrying Grehm high over his head like a champion. And doing such almost _destroyed_ our kingdom. He never struck anyone _with_ the blade.”

“He just carried it,” nodded an older historian, less as enthusiastic as his younger peers. “I remember. Artorius came down from the sky like a tempest, brandishing that damned Sword.”

“Pick it up,” Vesper commanded young Petal, a first year historian. The youngster was perplexed by the request.

“I can’t!” she replied. Petal lowered her voice to a whisper, as though she spoke in secrecy. “I mean I _shouldn’t_.”

“Go ahead!” the Matron insisted. “It’s just a blade. Pick it up! You have my permission.”

Vesper smiled slyly at Brush as Petal slowly reached for Grehm. She hesitated a moment, knowing that the Matron was infamous for playing jokes on her pupils to illustrate lessons. Regardless, Vesper gave an encouraging nod as Petal slowly wrapped her fingers around the Sword’s handgrip. The youngster tried to lift it. “It’s so heavy!” she cried. Dashosgrehm barely moved from the table.

“You see!” Vesper beamed with amusement. “The first sign of its authenticity! The sheer weight of Grehm is strange, but well known. Even your Captain has trouble carrying the weapon, as strong as she is.”

“What does that _mean_?” asked Stalag.

Vesper leaned over the table. “It means Grehm has selective properties. How could the outcast – forgive me, Brush – how could Artorius have held _this_ over his own head?” Pausing, she pointed her finger right at Stalag’s nose, her voice intensifying with curiosity. “How could one even _wield_ such a heavy weapon? The answer is that Grehm _chooses_ its wielder. There was nothing unusual about Artorius. He is Yoth, like you and I. Isn’t that right, Captain?”

Caught off guard, Brush vacantly replied, “Yes. Nothing remarkable.” Those words stung, for she felt that there was _much_ about Artorius that was remarkable. He was a gentle, loving man – and a romantic at heart. But not without his quirks. Grinning, Brush remembered all the rampant eccentricities of her husband. The historians paid little notice.

“Then,” Vesper said with enthusiasm, “I beg you not to let it out of your sight, Captain. I _can_ verify this is the real thing. And furthermore, I’d prefer this blasted thing remain in the company of those who struggle under its weight. I’d hate to know who else might be able to lift _Dashosgrehm_.”

Brush nodded and thanked the historians for their help. The carvings matched those sketched in the books, and all there was left to wonder was why Artorius had bestowed the Captain such a frightful gift. There was absolutely no doubt in Brush’s mind that this was Grehm – the Sword of the great and deadly Pen.

* * *

“You can’t stay in there all day!” Port called hoarsely through the heavy wooden door. He banged and pounded, hoping to annoy Ome into submission, rather than make any attempt to convince her.

“You walked off in the middle of a crowd and left me!” she yelled.

“I’m sorry!” he begged. “Please come out.” Port reached for the handle.

“Don’t come in, I’m naked!”

“No you’re not! I can see you through the keyhole!”

“You’re watching me!?” Ome shrieked and threw open the door.

“See? Fully clothed,” beamed a satisfied Port.

“I can’t go out there. You don’t understand.” Ome presented her argument indignantly, intent on standing her ground. “I have a medical condition.”

“What sort of condition? Fear of _hospitality_?”

“No!” She stamped her foot. “I can’t go _outside_. Leaving makes me sick.”

“Not go outside!?” cried a confused Port. “You know most places are outside? Of all the places you must go – _most are outside_!”

“Which is why I’m staying in here,” Ome shouted, pulling the door closed.

“But you were fine before the funeral!”

“I got panicky – especially after you _left me_!”

Port slumped to the ground. He was ready to give up. “I understand. It’s no fun being away from home. But you know what the best part is about your predicament? _Everywhere_ is far from home. Even if you stay inside – it’s not home.” Port shrugged, rising to his feet, and huffed. In his attempt to cheer the human up, he had managed to depress himself.

Slowly, the door creaked open. Ome poked her head out. “I’m hungry,” she sighed.

Port was excited to see she was finally cooperating. After all, he was one of the best stewards in the palace. His accomplishments were moot if he couldn’t play host. To his fortune, and by sheer will of the stomach, the human obliged his duties. “We can order the Queen’s chefs to prepare you a meal.” He smiled politely. “Corm and Aba are known for their–”

“No,” Ome said, raising a hand, waving away the suggestion. She promised to be social, but preferred not to encounter _those_ _two_ again. Aside from Aba’s lack of compassion, there wasn’t anything _too_ wrong with them, but she wasn’t comfortable with the idea of becoming _too_ familiar. The thought of making new friends didn’t bode well. “What else can I eat?”

“The market has a wide variety of selections,” explained Port. “Per the Queen’s command, I can offer any vendor palace credit for whatever you desire.”

“Palace credit?” asked Ome.

“Indeed,” replied Port. “Should a vendor trade with a palace official such as me, they build credit with her majesty. When their credit reaches a certain point, they may personally visit the Queen’s throne and request special items, equipment, or effects.”

“Hm. Interesting.” Ome nodded, mulling over the idea of _leaving_. Maybe it _was_ time to get a better look at the city – to know her surroundings. The funeral hadn’t fulfilled that need. “Yeah, let’s get out of here. The market sounds good.” She hesitated. “But not for too long, ok?”

By request, Port led Ome out of the palace, through the courtyard, to an area of the city littered with as many vendors as there were sprawling, green plants. Buildings were stacked and twisted like the trunks of fat trees, stationed by merchants noisily advertising items for sale. Ome had passed the market earlier, during her arrival to the city, but now she had the opportunity to inspect the merchandise. Some vendors traded long bits of fabric and other sewing materials, like little wood beads and tassels. The patterns and colors were brilliantly eye-catching, decorated with a cascade of hues and textures that blended together in a design of perfection. Other vendors traded little carved figures and small, useful tools. But the biggest, and most popular, vendor had giant bins of tiny wax candles. Yoth consumers grabbed up handfuls of these things, greedily stuffing them in their baskets.

Meandering over to one of the bins, Ome picked up a candle, inspecting the style of its appearance. It was small and obviously handmade. The candle’s dull colors spiraled from top to bottom like a bleached candy cane. As she rolled it around in her hand, suddenly the thing bent and snapped. Stunned, Ome’s eyes popped, disgusted by its brittleness. “No offense, but what a piece of shit,” she grumbled to Port. “Why’s everyone so obsessed with these? They’re crap.”

“We have had to reuse wax from our candles many times,” he explained. “Their quality grows worse and worse each month. But they do get the job done.”

“You mean driving off those…”

“…Sleepers,” nodded Port. “Yes.”

“Hm.” Ome scanned the canopy above, as though she might catch a glimpse of Wall. “If they don’t like fire, why not set up big fires all around the castle?”

“Oh no!” cried Port. “That’d be very dangerous to maintain. Trust me. We’d have to constantly tear down trees to fuel them. The Queen wouldn’t have it.”

“Oh yeah, I guess that’d require a lot of wood. Don’t you guys have coal or anything? Do you mine?”

“_Coal_?”

“Black rocks. You set them on fire, then they burn _really_ hot.”

Port narrowed his eyes, peering at Ome with disbelief. “You’re beginning to sound like someone from Wheel.” His voice was low, riddled with an air of suspicion. “That’s what _they_ do. They dig up the ground and burn what they find. I’ve heard they dig great pits with long, metal shovels attached to machines.” Port blinked his eyes, then shook his head. “Wheel – they’re _monsters_. A terrible people.”

“Are they?” asked Ome, only half-convinced.

“My cousin went to live there after the schism,” he continued. “He wrote twice but then stopped. He went to work in one of their _factories_, building weapons and making machines that tear through rocks. Some of their machines heat rocks with beams of light and melt them down.”

“_They_ have technology like that?” Ome asked, beginning to wonder if she was in the wrong district. Maybe Wheel had the equipment to send her home.

“Yes,” nodded Port. “Awful, isn’t it? You can understand why our Captain went to great lengths just to be sure you weren’t _from_ Wheel. Otherwise you could’ve been a serious threat. The people of Wheel are terrible and destructive. They live in fire and ash. No forest to provide for them.”

“I see,” Ome replied. Glancing back to the vendor, she spotted Yoth shoppers still scrambling desperately for whatever candles were available. Then she looked up at the store’s windows. Behind each pane of glass was a candle resting on a sill. The same went for the building next to it, and all the others lining the street. Even the houses had the same arrangement. In that breath of realization, Ome noted the heavily armed guards posted on every street corner, carrying sharp swords and long, wooden bows. It was clear the people of Fore lived in constant fear. She sighed, thinking of Wall – the very _thing_ they feared. On one hand, Ome was curious to see the creature again. But on the other, she feared what might happen should he present himself.

“Come, let’s get you something to eat,” said Port. “That was what we planned, wasn’t it?”

Ome nodded, but truthfully she had lost her appetite.

* * *

Ome went to bed that night, going about the same routine as the night before. She bathed, then changed into her night clothes. The servants took her jeans and sweatshirt, in addition to her socks and underpants, and sent them off for overnight cleaning. Ome could have opted for a variety of clothing, but like with avoiding Corm and Aba, she was afraid of becoming too comfortable. The bottom line was – she just wanted to go home.

After changing into a fresh nightgown, she hustled to bed. Ome blew out the candle resting on her night stand and snuggled down under the covers. Before she could close her eyes, there came a knock at the door. Thinking it was a servant collecting soiled bath towels, she called out in response, stating there was nothing left for them to collect.

“It’s Brush,” said a voice behind the door. Then a brief pause. “Let me in.”

Confused by the Captain’s unexpected visit, Ome pursed her lips and wrestled out of bed. She walked quickly to unlock the latch, pulling open the door to see Brush standing in the corridor in a manner quite atypical of the polished, hardnosed Captain. Her hair hung down past her shoulders, long and unkempt. Without her hefty boots, she appeared much shorter than usual and wore a nightgown which – for once – made her look like a _woman_. A tired woman at that. “Why is your room so dark?” she asked, annoyed. Brush squeezed past Ome, inviting herself in.

“Uh,” said Ome, taken aback by the Captain’s informal appearance.

Brush walked over to the window, sliding her hand across the sill, searching for something. “_Where’s_ the candle?” she asked.

Ome pointed to her night stand.

Brush walked over, grabbed it, and placed it back on the sill. “First of all, keep it here. And second, keep it lit.” She snatched up the flint and twisted it, igniting a small flame. Brush touched the flame to the candle wick and the room glowed with subtle warmth that danced in shadows across the wooden walls.

“_Ok_,” huffed Ome, making no attempt to hide the irritation in her voice.

Brush scowled. “Haven’t you been listening to anything we’ve _told_ you about Sleepers?”

“Yes.” Ome gave a dirty look, annoyed by the Captain’s impatience – especially at this hour.

“They avoid fire.” Brush’s voice turned to a mumble. “This method works most of the time…”

Ome nodded. “_Yes_, I know. I’ve heard this speech over and over. I’ll keep it lit. Can I go back to bed now?”

Brush narrowed her eyes. “Tell me,” she said, considering _something_ she hadn’t suspected before.

“What?”

“Did you light your candle _last_ night?”

Ome didn’t know how to answer. And she was shocked to discover how much she wanted to lie. What was _that_ all about? Wanting to keep Wall a secret all of a sudden? It seemed inappropriate. But in spite of the risk of not disclosing a Sleeper’s visit, she struggle to understand _why_. What was she protecting? Wall could have killed her, and the whole reason for his initial visit was to do so. Regardless, Brush was a smart soldier, and an even smarter woman. Ome’s mute reply dwelled for far too long. The Captain had already sized up the guilty expression across her face.

“You _didn’t_ – did you?” concluded Brush.

Ome said nothing, staring at her toes.

“Is that why you were so tense at breakfast? Is that why you were exhausted? What happened last night?”

Ome nervously scratched her shoulder, diverting her eyes from Brush’s.

The Captain’s voice grew sharp. “_Human_ – look at me. Did something come through this window?”

Folding her arms, Ome stared at the floor.

“I have a duty to protect my people – to protect my Queen. I don’t care where the hell you’re from. Tell me what happened last night or you’ll spend tonight in chains, far below the palace, where we tend to be less _hospitable_.”

Ome’s heart raced as she looked back up at Brush. Such a seemingly innocent woman, dressed in thin night clothes, with long hair and silky skin. However, she knew Brush was not a force to be reckoned with. The Captain saw far too many people die, and had far too many responsibilities pressed across her back. If she could carry the weight of an entire kingdom on her shoulders, then Ome was no match for her.

“He came through the window,” she confessed. “Crawled right across my bed.”

“_He_?” asked Brush, eyes wide. Angered, she crossed her arms.

“Yes. He’s gone. I wrestled him, then shoved him out the window.”

“_You_ wrestled a Sleeper?” Brush’s jaw dropped, shaking her head.

“Yes,” muttered Ome.

The Captain walked over to the window and opened it. She reached her hand out and swiped it along the exterior of the frame. There were deep grooves all around and beneath. “Claw marks,” muttered Brush. Pulling her hand back inside, she closed the window and locked it. “_How_?” she asked. “How did _you_ overpower it? And don’t lie. I refuse to believe you’re even physically capable to lift a child!”

“Well,” said Ome, more nervous than ever, “there’s something I’ve been keeping from you.” She walked to her night stand and reached behind it, grabbing the can of pepper spray stashed from earlier. She hid it just before handing her clothes off to be laundered. Ome tossed the mace to Brush who nimbly caught it, twirling the spray can around in her fingers, casually inspecting it with little interest.

“It’s pepper spray,” explained Ome. “It burns. I shot him right in the eyes before I shoved him out that window.”

Brush scrunched her eyebrows together, then laughed. She dismissively tossed the mace to Ome’s bed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, then I’m confused. What the hell do you want me to tell you? That’s all I did. I sprayed him, he lost his balance, and I pushed him out. End of story.”

“Of course,” said Brush. “You caught him off guard with a _weapon_. We have weapons too, far superior to a little container of pepper juice. But how – _how_ – did you outmaneuver his ability to _paralyze_?”

“Paralyze?”

“Sleepers don’t just hold us down and fight us to death. They _manipulate_ us. Their movement, their eyes, their very scent – we’re stunned by it. Enchanted. If they corner us, we can’t fight back. We fall into a trance. Victims think they’re in love. It always happens right before they attack. Did you experience this?”

Ome shook her head.

“You felt _nothing_ for the creature?”

“No. I didn’t feel anything. I was terrified, but that’s all.” Ome grew uncomfortable with the discussion, inching closer to the door, hoping Brush would follow and eventually leave.

The Captain shook her head. “It takes a group of us to bring down just _one_…”

“I didn’t know that,” said Ome. She sleepily rubbed her eyes, yawning obscenely as if to drop a hint.

Brush looked away and shook her head. “I’m no expert, but I assume it has something to do with you being a human. And humans – I know little of them. Maybe your kind is immune to Sleepers.”

“You might be right. I don’t know.”

The Captain yawned, without embellishment, and stretched her arms above her head. “I might be,” she said in mid-yawn. “If anything else happens, you report it to me _immediately_. Got that?”

“Yes.”

Brush walked to the door. Elated, Ome pulled at the handle, widening its aperture. She couldn’t get her point across any clearer. The Captain shuffled across the threshold, nearing the hallway. Ome began to close the door.

“Oh – one more thing,” said Brush. “Your carriage will be here at dawn. A servant will wake you. That’s actually why I stopped by.”

“Oh. I see. Eh, thanks.”

Brush sleepily exited the bedroom and continued down the hallway. Ome closed her door, locking it up tight. Then she thought better of it. Reaching for the latch, she disengaged the lock. Just in case someone needed to get in, though preferably not through the window. She didn’t want to appear too suspicious – not after _this_ interaction. Perhaps it was best to let palace staff come and go as they pleased for _now_.

Before lying down, Ome approached the window. She stood beside the candle that reflected a deep, yellow glow across her white nightgown. Staring out at the cluster of dark trees, she thought she saw something situated high in the branches. A pair of eyes twinkled between the trees, reflecting the flicker of the candlelight. But it was so dim beyond the window, Ome was unsure if it was her imagination. Squinting to get a better look, she could have sworn she saw _him_ again…

* * *

Brush retired to the barracks early that night. Though she rarely showed it, she was exhausted. Without a doubt, this week had been the most busy and unpredictable in over a decade. The sheer number of things weighing on her mind kept the Captain from proper rest the night before. But now, she was so depleted of energy that sleep was inevitable. As she neared her bed, she stretched her muscles. They were sore, which was typical due to daily training. But on this night, the soreness stemmed from elsewhere. For nearly 48 hours the Captain ran herself into the ground, attending to predicaments that stretched between Mul’s funeral, the arrival of the human, and the very blade of Dashosgrehm itself. By the day’s end, Brush neglected every shred of relaxation. Her nerves were shot, like a pile of useless mush, slopped along her tired bones.

And of course there was the peace treaty. The only thing she _cared_ about. As Brush massaged the tender arches of her aching feet, she wished she could just forget about Grehm, Ome, and Mul, and concentrate solely on unifying the kingdom. However, it seemed the former three were in some way tied to this goal of hers. Ignoring them would, absurdly, trump her overall objective. The fuck of it all, she thought, climbing beneath her sheets, curling up in bed. A sleepy, fleeting thought – Brush realized she wasn’t impressed that Ome was able to defend herself against a Sleeper. Did she _hate_ the human that much? No. It wasn’t hatred per say. She couldn’t put her finger on it. The woman rubbed her the wrong way. That much was obvious. No there was something else. It bugged her. Shrugging away her perplexing attitude toward the human, the Captain then wondered why the Sleeper couldn’t get the job done. In all her years dealing with the aftermath of their attacks, she witnessed very _few_ close calls. Too few.

There was a knock at the door. Brush woke from her daze, not quite asleep, but definitely not awake enough to be jubilant over visitors. For a moment she sat still, wondering if she had dreamed the sound. But the knock came again. Wearily, the Captain blinked her eyes. “Good fucking grief - who is it?” she asked.

“Corporal Mast, Captain. Dusk is approaching quickly.”

Brush sat straight up at his words. “Oh no, not now. _Please_.” She clapped a hand to her forehead, shaking it like an overburdened parent. In reality, dusk had come and gone, as it always did, but Corporal Mast spoke in code. Captain Spring had requested Brush’s presence. “Thank you,” she replied to the Corporal.

As she dressed, Brush wondered what new development would keep her from yet another night of sleep. And as she ambled toward her chamber door, she remembered Grehm. Hesitating – should she bring it? What would that accomplish? Thinking it over, the Captain toyed with the idea of using Grehm to intimidate Spring. Fore possessed the Sword capable of annihilating Wheel in an instant. All they had to do was request Artorius’ assistance. And knowing that Artorius – Brush’s _husband_ – had resurfaced would drive Spring into a jealous rage. Grehm was _leverage_. With the influence of the Sword, there would be no further debate over a truce. Peace would _have_ to come, otherwise the alternative would be dreadful. Fore had a long list of demands. Spring would _beg_ for negotiation.

Weighing her options, the Captain crept from the palace, marching off into the Clip Woods. It was no secret that she and Spring met on occasion. How else _could_ they discuss the peace treaty? But due to the nature of their past, both Captains decided it best not to advertise their late-night reunions. The districts maintained their share of juicy gossip. The fleeting tryst between Brush and Spring perpetuated such infantile rumors for years. Although, Spring never made it easy to transition away from such scandal. His lewd behavior was such a frustration. Brush wouldn’t have put up with spurning his advances if peace didn’t linger on the horizon.

Lighting a torch, she ducked away from the scope of the city. The meeting place wasn’t far, but the marquee of thick overgrowth hanging from the trees above made the forest path too dark to safely tread. The grove, to where Brush was headed, was open and inviting, illuminated by an overhead blanket of shuddering stars and the static glow of the moon. It was just one of several designated meeting spots for diplomatic discussion. And _nothing_ more.

Brush didn’t wish harm upon Spring, and so decided against threatening him with Grehm. As she walked, the Captain reflected on her options. Since they met without escorts, she decided to bring Grehm, revealing that it was indeed in her possession and let the talks begin from there. Not far from her current position was a second meeting place, just halfway between the two districts, known as the Common Ground. Less secretive counsels were held there. Spring and Brush avoided it on nights such as tonight. The Common Ground was a far more appropriate setting for small squads to accompany both Captains. But these impromptu meetings, beset with coded phrases and late-night walks, occurred elsewhere.

When Brush arrived, Spring already waited in plain view. He had started a campfire, even though the weather was warm. As she approached, extinguishing her torch and laying it down across the dirt, she nodded to her old _friend_.

“Have a seat,” Spring gestured.

Brush sat, crossing her legs on the opposite side of the fire.

“I see you’re armed.” He grinned smoothly, revealing a perfect row of white teeth. “Do you distrust me so much? That’s a hefty blade.” Standing, Spring moved from his position, taking a seat close beside Brush. He pushed himself against her, leaning in to get a close look at the strange weapon.

Brush felt his hands slide along her back, searching for the softer spots between her armor. Spring managed to angle his breath against her ear, asking ever so gently where she found such a broad sword. His voice tickled her skin, and while it may have presented a momentary thrill, Brush cleared her throat and remained stoic, suppressing all feelings of arousal. “I brought it specifically to show you,” she explained, revealing the Sword. As the wildly decorated hilt slipped into the firelight, glinting with brilliance between the grooves of mystic etchings, the cool metal of Grehm fevered at the touch of heat wafting across it in a breeze of warm alacrity.

Spring nearly gasped at the sight. His cool demeanor briefly melted away as he looked upon the weapon. Though _he_ had called for the meeting, it was Brush who came bearing heavy news. Revisiting Grehm was by far the last thing he thought would entail the evening. “Is that…”

“Yes.”

Hit with a flood of memories, Spring disengaged his caressing fingers along Brush’s body, raising a hand to his temple. There was a time when the sight of Grehm would have terrified him. He remembered the Sword as it was so many years ago – raised high above Artorius’ head, like a beacon of destruction, calling to a freakishness that lurked between dark clouds. Artorius descended upon Fore, atop the head of a beast – _Pen_. Like a general charging into war, Artorius pointed Grehm to the heavens, directing his attack, aimed squarely at Spring. At that moment, so many years ago, fear worked its into Spring’s heart, compelling him to loathe his mistake which had pushed the Wizard so far over the edge. Had Artorius not walked in on Spring and Brush that fateful night, Grehm may have remained untouched, laying dormant for centuries to come. Yet, there in Artorius’ own bunk, he found the two of them, sprawled naked, drunk and locked together in a generous embrace. Spring remembered how Artorius screamed aloud, crying out words of betrayal. His heartbreak echoed, waking the lovers. Brush offered no explanation, but simply begged her husband’s forgiveness. She crawled on her knees across the wood floor, despairing and remorseful. Artorius noted the sobering look in her eyes – the regret, the confusion – all the signs of a night of drinking, then fucking. His wife had been inebriated and so he shifted his rage to Spring. _Only_ to Spring. After sparring like school boys, knuckles cracking against flesh, Artorius abandoned the altercation, disappearing into the night. The next time Fore citizens saw the Wizard, he held Grehm in his hand, riding upon an unholy creature.

Rubbing his temple, Spring wrenched away from the memory. The residue of unpleasantness trickled through his mind. Grehm certainly had a strange, nostalgic quality to it. He glanced at Brush, regaining his composure. “How did you come to–”

“–He gave it to me.”

Spring nodded, silently gathering his thoughts. He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a list of demands for the treaty, then balled up the parchment and tossed it into the fire. “This changes everything,” he whispered, staring into the flames. The parchment curled and blackened.

“This is to ensure trust,” Brush whispered back. “And I decided not to hide it from you.”

“And do you plan to use it?” he snapped, his eyes narrowed.

Brush paused. She hadn’t considered a response, should he ask the question. She knew in the deep of her heart that she would do whatever she needed to protect Fore, but to admit that in the moment? _No_. Not to the enemy’s military leader. She had the upper hand, but dared not play the part of oppressor.

“If I asked him,” she replied, “he would use it for _us_.”

“_Artorius_,” Spring growled. “Is this his way of apologizing? How _sick_.”

Brush shrugged. “Could be. We haven’t spoken. He left the Sword without a word.”

“He was never very good with words, was he?” Spring laughed uncomfortably as he stood, stretching his arms above his head. Then he crossed them over his chest, stepping away from the fire, mulling over his thoughts. Brush watched and for a moment she felt pity, as though she had stepped on an insect. With Grehm in her keep, she might as well have been a giant. But after some pacing, Spring turned around and said, “Well I came to review my terms for the treaty, but now it seems everything must be revised. We’ll have to meet again. I will… _talk_ to Mer. See what he recommends.”

“You’ll get something from this.” Brush nodded.

“I suspect you’ll get _everything_,” grimaced Spring. “We’re at your mercy, so it seems.”

Brush sat by the fire, staring through it, as if in a trance. She had nothing to say.

“If peace is to be had, you realize the Sword should be destroyed,” Spring added. “If you can agree to that, we’ll meet again. Three nights from tonight – at the Common Ground.”

Brush nodded.

Spring turned away without a word, exiting through the shadows. He disappeared from sight. As he traipsed along the dark path, he wasn’t entirely certain what he hoped to accomplish that evening. He came prepared with a list of demands, planning to _address_ them as he could have, perhaps, _undressed_ the Captain. Oh how Spring wanted to see Brush once again, naked and straddled across his lap. But she didn’t come alone. She brought something worse than a refusal. She carried Grehm. She might as well have carried Artorius. It was clear, now. Grehm changed _everything_. And so, Spring had changes to make as well.


	10. Chapter 10

Tirn was new to the infantry and had yet to be assigned the task of forest escort. But he was thrilled to hear he had been deputized to follow Whipp and the human, acting as their guardian. Artorius’ cottage wasn’t far from the Fore border and he knew that area well from his childhood. Over time, the Clip Woods grew more dangerous, but Tirn believed few Yoth knew the landscape as well as he. Few, except the rangers.

On the morning of the excursion, Whipp met Tirn out front, near the palace courtyard. The carriage waited along the roadside as pedestrians bustled past. “We won’t be alone,” he explained. “Six rangers should be following us, watching for a Wheel ambush or Sleepers – anything, really.”

“_Is _there anything else?” chuckled Tirn.

“The human could be setting a trap for all we know,” Whipp cautioned. “Secretly, she’s from Wheel.”

“Is that the official word?”

“No, but that’s what I think. Anyway, the Captain wants you to get to know her a little better. Get her to talk.”

“So I’m not wanted for my expertise on the region?”

“On the contrary, Brush recommended _you_ because the human’s likely to ask questions. The vegetation and wildlife are different than where she’s _claims_ she’s from. Just focus less on protection and more on conversation. The rangers have our backs.”

Tirn scowled, crossing his arms. “Why are _you_ telling me all this? Why not my Captain?”

“She’s too occupied.” Whipp shrugged, shaking his head. “Apparently they’re writing up a treaty. She has much to do before meeting with Wheel.”

Uncrossing his arms, Tirn nodded. “If you say so.” Admittedly, the news didn’t disappoint him. He’d still have the chance to show off what he knew, but for different reasons. His recommendation came from Brush and Weden themselves, and that was enough to cause the fledgling to beam with dignity. But since the Captain and Lieutenant were busy attending to their Queen, Tirn could only boast his pride to the coachman, six reputed – albeit invisible – rangers, and a woman just emerging from the north wing, looking as though she had sluggishly rolled out of bed. “Are all humans so shabby?” he asked. “She looks downright _vulgar_.”

“Couldn’t say,” replied Whipp. “Never met one before. Not ‘til she arrived.”

Tirn smirked. “Makes two of us.” The palace was full of talk about the human. So were the barracks. Though many Yoth saw Ome in person, this was the first time _Tirn_ had a good look at her. Black hair, brown eyes –her coloring was peculiar. And she looked much too short. “Humans must live in squat homes,” he mumbled. “How can they reach a thing?” As the tiny, black-haired creature climbed into the carriage, he proudly noted that all Yoth were _tall_ – not a scant one among them. But in spite of his self-righteousness, he fidgeted with the carriage steps, unfolding them to help Ome into the compartment. Before proceeding, he checked his weapons, making sure his dagger and sword were securely fastened. Satisfied, he turned, hoisting his weight upon the folding step, and settled in.

Whipp, sitting in the coach’s seat with his feet flat against the footboard iron, noticed the nervous, young soldier and shook his head. The last thing he needed was _two_ passengers to baby-sit. The coachman knew the woods were dangerous, but they were nothing to lose one’s head over, especially with rangers as escorts. He sighed, reaching forward to double-check the restraints attached to Ginger – his horse. Draped in royal equestrian apparel, she was decorated with the Fore crest, waiting patiently for her master’s command. Whipp already had the splinter bar hooked to her and she was ready to leave at any time. He shook the reins and Ginger obediently trotted forth. The carriage wheels turned in succession, kicking up pebbles and dirt. Behind them, the castle moved farther into the distant horizon graced by the morning sun.

Watching the scenery change behind her, Ome sat on a cushy seat opposite from Tirn. Uncomfortable with the silence, she looked at him and said, “Pretty morning.” Tirn simply nodded, his eyes fixed on the landscape beyond the window. He wasn’t trying to ignore her, but instead keep an eye for the rangers. He wanted to make sure the carriage was safe before the distraction of conversation. Ome felt awkward. She cleared her throat to break the silence, and then shifted in her seat, staring out her own window. It was going to be a long ride.

* * *

Nim sat at her throne, waiting for Brush to arrive. It was nearly midday and she knew Brush was typically early to appointments. Two advisors stood beside the Queen – one who covered socio-political issues and the other handled financial concerns. Not that the Yoth were so much _financial_ people, but they had a small economy built around trade and time banking. Fortunately for them, living off the land cut out the middle man – _money_. Money, reasoned Nim, was a concept more familiar to humans. She knew of it, especially during her time spent in the old world. To her relief, Mer never suggested the introduction of money despite all the other corruptions he brought to Lot. Trade wasn’t always so flawless, but it worked well enough to keep the kingdom up and running. Either way, the Queen had her advisors. No system was perfect, not even in Fore.

Brush arrived, hurrying down the stretch of the throne room. The Captain followed her typical routine of charging forth in a rush and forgetting to kneel. When she did kneel, it was brief – the very act of doing so inconvenienced her. And so, Brush did as she always did: Hurry. Stop at the foot of the throne. Half-kneel. Stand. By that point in their friendship, Nim found the Captain’s arrogance inexplicably endearing, though she’d never admit to it. But this – _this_ was the Brush she had grown to trust!

“Are you ready to hear my terms?” asked the Queen.

“Yes.” Brush lowered herself to a chair just opposite of the throne.

“Good.” Nim turned to an advisor and instructed, “Hand her the logbook and a quill.” He nodded, picking up the materials provided on the table beside him, and gave them to the Captain. “Ready?” asked Nim.

Brush nodded.

“Good. I want you to bring the following terms to Spring’s attention…”

* * *

Ome noticed Tirn couldn’t keep his eyes away from the carriage window. He squinted, then craned his neck high to inspect the passing trees. “What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he replied. “I just thought… I saw something.” He gulped nervously, for in fact, he saw absolutely nothing – no sign of the rangers – and that made him sweat.

Ome also began to twist uncomfortably in her seat. Her “protector” behaved so ill-at-ease which did little to reassure her. But rather than harp on the subject, as it was obvious Tirn didn’t want to talk, she picked at the stitching on her seat. A loose thread in the velvet cushion became a quiet fixation, and the more she pulled at it, the more it unraveled.

“I need to talk to the coachman,” Tirn said abruptly, and slid open the window until it was wide enough for him to crawl through. Ome nervously watched him disappear. As the carriage pressed on, he made his way to Whipp’s seat, hoisting himself up, pulling his body to the leather bench behind the reins. “I don’t like this,” he said.

“Nothing to fret about,” Whipp replied calmly. He moved over to make room. The young soldier inched across the seat, then anxiously ran his hand over the back of his neck. Whipp reassured him everything was fine. “No signs of trouble yet. Relax, Corporal.”

“There are no signs of the rangers. We need to turn back.”

“They’re staying out of sight. They’ll keep up with us through the woods.”

“Then where are they? I haven’t seen them in the trees. Frankly, I’m not eager to make conversation until I know we’re safe.”

“Stealth is the whole point,” Whipp said in a low voice. “Come on now. You’re not making her uncomfortable are you? That _defeats_ the whole point.”

“No,” Tirn lied. “She’s fine.”

“Good. If you’re worried about the rangers, keep an eye out for a traveler when we pass the next hill. One of them is supposed to intercept us there, dressed as a merchant. I’m supposed to give him a nod if everything’s fine here.” Whipp paused, lowering his bushy eyebrows in a curious sort of way. “She hasn’t said anything suspicious, has she?”

Tirn shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

Whipp nodded. “Very well, then. Now head back inside before _she_ gets suspicious.”

Still shaking his head, Tirn complied, climbing backdown into the carriage. As he descended to his seat, he glanced around, making sure he had a clear view of the outside. Then he noticed Ome fiddling with a thread between her fingers. Tirn cleared his throat. “So,” he began, “you’re on your way to see Artorius?”

Ome nodded. “Apparently he can help me.” She gave a shrug. “But who knows.”

“Oh I wouldn’t be so doubtful. He is a master Wizard, you see. Artorius is somewhat _infamous_ among Fore. Have you heard his story?”

“A little, yeah.”

“I wouldn’t trust him with my life, but the sheer _power_ he wields does fascinate me.”

“Whoa, whoa,” said Ome, raising her hands. “You wouldn’t _trust him with your life_?” Pursing her lips, she drew a deep breath through her nose. Why the hell was she on her way to see this guy, anyway?

“He’s like a – a _god_.” Tirn regretted what he has said, hoping not to upset the human further. “A powerful warrior, able to command things that are bigger and more phenomenal than you could ever imagine. I wouldn’t trust him because – well – according to the stories, he’s at times a little _too_ powerful.”

Impressed, Ome’s worries dwindled. Maybe this Artorius _would_ be able to send her home. The way everyone spoke of him, he sounded capable of anything. A Wizard, she thought. A _real_ Wizard? At this point, no fantastic suggestion could faze her.

Tirn cleared his throat again. “Let me tell you about some of the plants in this corner of the forest. The darkblossom flowers grow only on the north side of the hill because they need moonlight to grow…”

* * *

Despite Tirn’s fears, the rangers very much kept an eye on the carriage. Under the cover of dense trees, they moved fast and unseen carrying their bows across their backs. That was how they guarded Fore’s borders for nearly a decade. Rather than fear creatures of the Clip Woods, they mimicked them. Crafty survival skills such as those were reason enough for Brush to appoint these six to safeguard the journey. She warned them to stay vigilant should the human betray her travel companions to possible Wheel informants along the way. And so, upon her orders, the stealthy bowmen moved silently among the trees, despite Tirn’s worries.

Brush’s strategy was simple. Two followed the carriage at all times, keeping it locked in sight, while two others scouted ahead to intercept trouble. The third, remaining pair lingered behind the entire party, deflecting rear attacks. After a short while, the rear couple planned to forge onward, passing the carriage to meet the two scouting ahead. The scouts planned to move to the back, passing the carriage and its sentries. Then the cycle repeated itself. Unknown to Ome, and just as Whipp promised, six skilled rangers wove back and forth along the carriage path, making certain nothing posed a threat.

As the trail brought everyone closer to the Wheel border, ranger Corporal Fox broke off and disguised himself as a merchant. He took to the path and started off toward the carriage head-on. As Fox approached, he nodded to Whipp, catching a glimpse of Tirn inside. The young soldier sat up tall in his seat, relieved to discover that the coachman’s promises weren’t bunk. Fox signaled Tirn with a well-known hand gesture among the Fore infantry, implying they were still safe. Had creatures attached themselves to the belly of the carriage for example, then he would have used a much different gesture altogether. Tirn nodded to Fox, more reassured than he was at the start of their travel. And as their eyes met, the ranger noticed the young soldier sigh heavily as he sunk into his seat. Fox continued on his way.

The carriage followed the winding path as Fox stepped back into the woods. He noticed movement on the cliffs above. Creeping silently into the forest, he removed his merchant clothing and donned his camouflage. Stealthily, he inched along, keeping his eyes fixed on the strange movement. But his eyes wavered, spotting his partner, ranger Corporal Shade. “Something follows them!” he called, rushing to Shade’s side. “Along the bluffs. Something with _wings_.”

“A Sleeper?” asked Shade.

“Perhaps.” Fox pointed into the direction of the carriage. “Find the other two. Ready the torches.” They pressed on and met with Corporal Papry and Sergeant Gurt who lurked behind the carriage. Each spoke quickly as the four snuck through the woods.

“Why would a Sleeper follow them?” asked Gurt. “Why doesn’t it just attack?”

The others shrugged.

“We should hold our position ‘til the other two fall back,” said Shade. “If there’s a Sleeper out there, we can’t let it get close.”

“Agreed,” replied Gurt.

Fox and Shade pulled back and kept their eyes on the sky.

Papry and Gurt moved on, ducking between trees as they climbed over branches. Not once did the Sergeant let the carriage out of his sight. Over the years, he became the best tracker in the Fore army. Nothing moved through the forest that he couldn’t follow, remaining unseen. His mission to pursue the trail made the rangers’ job even easier. Rather than focus on where the carriage was headed, Gurt only had to provide that it traveled unharmed. However, after a short time worry set in among the skilled bowmen. Gurt and Papry should have rendezvoused with two others – Tax and Spindrift. For hours, their weaving method went uninterrupted, but now it seemed there was an irregularity in the pattern. “Keep an eye on the carriage,” ordered Gurt. “I’m going to move ahead and find the other two. Papry, you stay behind.” The Corporal nodded.

As Gurt moved onward, he began to regret leaving his position. He ran ahead through the forest, hoping to catch Tax and Spindrift nearby. His eyes scrambled to find tracks, signals, anything to indicate their presence. But instead, something found him. Gurt heard movement in the trees ahead. A shadowy figure was perched not far from his position. He stopped in his tracks, eyes locked on the figure, trying to make out its shape. “Sleeper,”he whispered and reached into his pack to pull out a torch. But before he could lift it, he heard a sudden noise to his left – another Sleeper. _They’ve flanked me!_ Gurt yanked the torch from his pack and hurried to open his tinder box to ignite it. To his misfortune, however, both figures descended, rushing upon him as swiftly and as deadly as vipers. He dropped the tinder and ran in the opposite direction, hoping that if he stayed in the woods, he’d be able to outrun them. He hoped it was true that their broad wings slowed the foul things’ movement between the trees.

Stumbling, Gurt rolled down a small hill and landed in a creek bed. As he pulled himself up from the rocks, he saw two bodies torn apart. Smashed limbs and fresh bones scattered across the mud. The creek water was tainted with blood, trickling pinks and reds across the grubby stones. The Sergeant looked into the eyes of the corpses – Tax and Spindrift. Panicked, he glanced up the hill and saw three Sleepers barreling toward him. As they descended, he called out to Fox and Shade.

* * *

Inside the carriage, Tirn heard screams from the woods, echoing not far from their route. He fit his head through the window and ordered Whipp to stop. Slowly, the wheels came to a halt and the soldier opened his door. “Remain where you are,” he instructed Ome just before ducking out.

“What’s the matter?” asked Whipp.

Tirn hopped to the ground and looked around suspiciously, hovering his palm over the hilt of his sword. “Something’s out here. Did you hear that?”

“Yes.” Whipp huffed impatiently. “We should keep moving.”

“Was that a scream?” A glimpse of panic flashed across Tirn’s face. He marched over and grabbed hold of Ginger’s reins.

“I don’t know!” Whipp exclaimed. “Let’s not linger – let go of the reins!” Something moved in the foliage with a soft grunt. Whipp cocked his head over his shoulder as his eyes widened with alarm. “What was _that_?”

“Ssh!” Tirn aimed his gaze high, searching the tree tops.

Whipp heard another grunt as leaves violently shook from the bushes. Twigs snapped from a definitive weight trudging eagerly across them. Worried, he dropped the reins and jumped to the ground. The coachman followed Tirn who had been circling the carriage, eyeballing the trees.

“Something stirred high above,” said Tirn, glancing back at Whipp. “Then it stopped.” The soldier lost sight of his target to the triumph of dense plant life.

Disinterested in the treetops, the coachman grew more concerned with something much closer to the ground. “We better get out of here _now_, soldier!”

“I saw it _again_!” Tirn’s jaw dropped as he pointed up high. “It – It’s in the trees!” He nervously pulled out his sword, buffering the blade between himself and the mysterious thing high above.

Whipp heard a third grunt from behind, this time louder. _Closer_. The movement rustled tenaciously through the foliage and Ginger whinnied, stamping at the dirt with a demanding hoof. “It’s _here_,” he said. “Soldier, we need to leave _now_!”

“We can’t!” argued Tirn. “_Something’s_ in the trees. It _follows_ us. A dark figure. It–” At that very second, a large, brown creature crashed through the leafy exterior of the woods. It grunted and drooled, moving like a drunken, crazed ape.

Whipp shouted, “_Trolls_!”

Tirn rushed the creature, swinging his sword. The troll roared with ferocity, as spit and mucus rattled from its wide, ugly mouth. Hysterical, Ginger whinnied louder, wrestling violently against the splinter bar until it snapped away from her. She raced off as Whipp cried out for her return. “Damn it!” he screamed, chasing after Ginger for only a few steps. The old coachman was unable to match the pace of a horse. Shrinking smaller and smaller against the landscape, the Fore crest slapped across Ginger’s round backside as her frenzied hoofs kicked up dirt. She galloped away, disappearing beyond the trees.

As Tirn sank his blade into the hairy upper arm of the troll, a second troll burst from the foliage. It grabbed the soldier by the blade of his sword, wrenching it from his hands. The creature tossed the weapon high into the trees – gone forever. Both trolls grabbed Tirn by his arms and legs, pulling him brutally from each end. He kicked and punched, struggling against their strength as all three of them barreled closer to the carriage.

“Where are the rangers!?” exclaimed Whipp. Suddenly, the coachman remembered Ome and dashed to the carriage door, frantically opening it. He shouted, “Get out! _Now_!”

Ome was inside, paralyzed with fear. The commotion swelled around her and she couldn’t make a move.

“Get out of the carriage! Run!” screamed Whipp.

She nodded and sprinted out the door, falling to the ground. As she fell, Tirn and the massive trolls smashed into the carriage, flattening it down like a house of cards. The trolls rolled around like animals as Tirn was crushed beneath them – his body rendered lifeless from the rampage. One troll picked him up by the ankle, roughly tossing him against a tree trunk like a broken toy. Then it scowled at Whipp.

The coachman turned to flee, facing Ome, wildly repeating that she _run_. She watched in horror as a large, hairy palm grabbed Whipp by the back of his head, lifting him off his feet. He managed to utter, “_Run..._” one last time before the trolls battered him to the ground, breaking his bones beneath the heavy pounding of their massive knuckles.

Ome tried to scramble away, clutching at grass and mud, but she slipped and fell, catching the attention of the troll closest to her. It lunged after her like a wild dog, grabbing her by the leg and holding her up high. The fat, brown monster inspected her tiny body as it aggressively shook her like a doll. Ome felt her insides melt and twist in agony as her world appeared upside down in a violent swirl of chaos. The other troll moved closer, gripping her by the arm and the two pulled at her like a favorite toy. Ome’s appendages burned, and she braced herself for the impending sensation of torn limbs. But before anything snapped and her world went black, she fell to the ground, slamming the point of her jaw painfully against the grass. Reaching to her mouth, Ome felt something hard and sharp rolling around the back of her tongue. Spitting it into her hand, it appeared as though she cracked one of her molars. She dropped the tooth fragment, too shaken to care, and as she looked up, Ome saw the backside of a winged figure standing between her and the trolls. “_Wall_?” she uttered, wiping mud from her lips.

Posed between the trolls and Ome, Wall fearlessly moved closer to the creatures. One of them bellowed like a frenzied beast and barreled forth on its simian knuckles. Wall dashed into it with a strength that overpowered the heft of its weight, knocking the troll on its backside. The Sleeper grappled along its torso with his sharp nails as the troll howled in pain. Wall sunk his long fingers deep into the beast’s flesh, digging at its chest cavity like a wolf burying his prey. He tore away skin and muscle, ripping bones from their ligaments. The troll’s tendons loudly snapped around his wrists and hands as he yanked its bloated heart from a warm cave of arterial tissue. Touching the vascular organ to his lips, Wall began to gnaw at its brawny exterior. In doing so, blood drenched his chin and neck, spilling down his shoulders and chest. Trickling past his navel, the blood spilled across his feet, staining the grass beneath him like a platform of scarlet turf.

Enraged, the second troll lurched forward, booming with a thunderous roar as its eyes wildly bugged from their sockets. Wall dropped the heart and opened his arms, inviting the audacious creature to take a shot at him. Maddened by the Sleeper, it hooted and growled, sprinting toward him with its barbaric mouth open wide. Ome remained frozen on the ground, stunned by the carnage all around. Wall was more powerful than she thought. Brush wasn’t kidding when she insinuated Ome’s success against a Sleeper was a stroke of good luck _at_ _best_. Petrified, she couldn’t move.

As the second troll leapt for Wall, he caught it by the jaw with one hand. With his other hand, he gripped the monster’s nose and teeth, pulling its mouth clean apart, like ripping a seam right down the median of its throat. Gore bubbled from the gaping hole in its neck, splashing across his arms. Wall dropped the troll’s body to the dirt. Panting heavily, he looked at both dead creatures, shaking his hair and wings free of filth kicked up from the scuffle. Then he turned, sighting a frightened Ome who curled up on the ground with her knees to her chest. Approaching her, it was evident she was still covered in blood, and the sight of it made her scream. Ome’s wide eyes stared down at herself as she flailed her arms like a hysterical bird flapping its wings. “No!” she screamed, attempting to escape, but Wall already managed to secure her in his gentle grip.

Ome’s voice echoed against the sky as she bellowed wildly like a madwoman. She weakly pushed away the Sleeper as he pulled her closer, naively pressing the sticky gore on his skin against her clothing and hair. Ome’s voice cracked and went hoarse as she began to hyperventilate, shuddering with anxiety. Wall continued to gather her into his lap, holding her close as he rested his chin on her head. She breathed short, rapid gasps against his skin as her brain pounded behind her eyes.

Somewhere amidst her numb stupor, Ome felt Wall’s arms cradle her. She relinquished herself to his embrace, confused about so many things. What had just _happened_? Why was _he_ there? Wall continued to rock Ome, stroking her hair from her dirty face, tucking it behind her ears. Stunned, she hugged him tight as she fought sudden bursts of adrenaline. As the Sleeper soothed the human, drawing the nimble beat of her heart closer to the absence of his own, Ome closed her eyes and wished she were back home.


	11. Chapter 11

As Brush and Nim finished their discussion of the treaty, the Queen realized their meeting went surprisingly well. She smoothed over every detail in a short matter of time, pushing through a large portion of issues. At first, she had been doubtful, but now her hopes had risen. Nim began to wonder if peace truly _was_ possible. “We may only need a few more days,” she informed the Captain. “Then you should meet with Spring again.”

“Oh…” said Brush. Her voice carried away as she looked down at her lap. With a shallow sigh, she glanced back up at her Queen and added, “You really think so?”

“Yes. I think today was rather productive.” Nim paused. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes, but–”

“–But _what_? What troubles you? This is what you wanted.” The Queen eyed Brush. “It _is_ what you wanted, Captain, is it not?”

Sitting in her seat, Brush uncrossed her legs, setting down the quill and paper. She sighed, then shook her head, lowering it into the palms of her hands. “I,” she stammered, “I have hesitations.”

Nim tilted her head, curious as to what _hesitations_ could trouble an, otherwise, unfaltering Captain. A woman as mulish as Brush didn’t typically behave so shiftily; she was never irresolute or erratic. Nim had her suspicions. “Did _he _say something to you?” she asked.

“Who?”

“You know who. _Spring_. What has he done?”

Annoyed, Brush couldn’t understand how the Queen maintained such keen skills in observation. She rarely discussed Spring with Nim. Yet Nim already knew the effect he had on her Captain. Perhaps history lent the Queen a clue, as well as the addled look draped across Brush’s face. The same look she once had in the past – the look of a woman misled by her weaker judgments. Nim’s familiarity of it identified the problem – _Spring_ – but it was up to Brush to explain. “He has _one_ term that brings me conflict,” she confessed.

“And that is?”

“I gave it little thought until now, but he expects Grehm to be _destroyed_.”

Nim shifted back in her seat, contemplatively raising a finger to her lip. Stewing upon the request, her following question meant to probe its source. “And is that by request of the King? Or is that by Spring’s own demand?”

“_He_ insisted when we last met,” replied Brush. “I – I don’t believe he had consulted the King. But I’m too afraid to push the issue now that we find ourselves so close to reconciliation.”

Though her mask didn’t reveal it, Nim lowered her brow as though she couldn’t decide what to say next. Then a realization came to her as if consequences were, to put it redundantly, of no consequence. The Queen lifted her arms in a widespread shrug. “What is the risk?”

“Risk?” asked Brush.

“The risk in destroying the Sword.”

The Captain swallowed, thinking it over. “For one, we wouldn’t have it anymore. It gives us an advantage. It may render us defenseless should treason arise in the future. But more importantly…” Brush’s face dropped into a quiet sadness. Her expression was one with which the Queen was unacquainted. Nim’s Captain maintained strong composure throughout their meeting, but the truth held that Brush was _not_ herself that day. “More importantly,” she continued, “Artorius has specifically requested that I _do not _let any harm come to that weapon.”

“And why should he care of Grehm’s safety?” snapped the Queen. “What concern of that is _his_?”

“I’ve asked myself the same question. I can’t determine _one_ reason. The Sword _is_ powerful. Perhaps Artorius doesn’t want to see that power disappear. Not if in case, someday, it may be needed again. Or maybe he’s just very – to put it simply – _attached_ to Grehm. Remember, majesty – he found it during a _very_ _dark_ time in his past.”

“Or perhaps _it_ found him,” suggested Nim. “Dark things come to those lost in dark places.”

“Either way, I was part of the reason Artorius had _lost_ himself. He didn’t end up lost in that dark place all on his _own_.” Brush’s eyes glossed over with stifled emotion, but she held back tears, making no effort to hide her overwhelming restraint. “It was my fault,” she added. “I _owe_ him.”

Nim took a deep breath, finding the proper words with which to advise her most trusted soldier – her most trusted friend. “Brush,” she replied, employing a cold tone, “we must do what we have to in order to ensure peace. That requires trust from _both_ sides. If you and Spring can trust one another on the issues, then the Sword is of no further relevance to our cause. It may become a casualty of not _war_, but _peace_. Grehm may have to quietly die right then and there as our enemies sign off on their promise to remain enemies no more.”

Brush stood and bowed, reassured by the words of her Queen. Though, a fraction of her heart stung at the idea of betraying Artorius once more for the greater good. In light of exile, he had been nothing but a friend to Fore. And oh how they _used_ him, despite his unwavering commitment.

Nim added, “We will continue to meet for the next few days. Then you _will_ meet with Spring. That is an order. However, I will not order you to destroy the Sword. I only ask that you do what you must in order to ensure peace for our kingdom. If you can compromise with Spring and protect Grehm, then all the better. But if no compromise can be reached on _that_ final term – then I trust your better judgment.”

The Queen’s words were craftily littered with high expectations. Guilt swelled in the Captain’s mind as her ears hung on every syllable. Brush kept her head down, frozen in a modest bow. “Yes, majesty.”

* * *

Ome’s eyes blinked open to a canvas of green. She looked around, realizing she was sprawled across the grass, beneath trees which grew near the edge of a water hole. No trolls in sight. She shivered, only to find she no longer wore clothing, but simply her underwear. Her clothes were stretched across the grass, flat and soggy – soaked in the water, then left out to dry. They weren’t covered in as much gore and filth as earlier, but their fabric held tight to the blood stains. Ome’s hair was damp and it stuck to her shoulders like thick, wet paper. Shirtless, she leaned forward, wrapping her wiry arms around her small exposed breasts, and stood. A rustling emerged from the other side of the water hole and so she followed the noise. Approaching, Ome spotted Wall with his back to her as he crouched low to the ground, peering through leaves that canopied the grotto. He turned as she moved closer, raising a finger to his lips. The Sleeper clearly requested silence. She advanced as quietly as she could, crouching down beside him, leaning into a web of plants. What was he looking at? Through the leaves, Ome saw an animal. It snorted, then moved back and forth as it fed on grass. Squinting, she looked a bit closer and noticed something on its hind quarters – the Fore crest. _Whipp’s horse – Ginger._ Ome looked at Wall and said, “That’s _our_ horse. From the carriage. What are you planning to do? Kill it?”

Wall raised his finger to his lips again and nodded.

Ome huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous!” Then she stood and pushed her way through the leaves, approaching Ginger with an outstretched hand. “C’mere girl… it’s ok.” The horse didn’t run, but craned her neck to sniff the approaching fingertips. Though unused to trolls, Ginger was quite used to people. Beyond that, the gray in her mane indicated she was an older animal, likely too weary to sprint off _twice_ in one day. Ginger pressed her snout to Ome’s fingers, snuffing at them for a possible treat. But the human had nothing to offer, so she turned her palm down flat, patting it along broad length of Ginger’s muzzle. “Good girl…” Glancing back over her shoulder, Ome saw two black eyes peering through the bushes. Though she was naked to her waist, she felt little discomfort – a shocking revelation for a woman once apprehensive about hospital gowns. “I won’t let you hurt her,” Ome informed Wall. “Not only would that be _sick_, but this horse can probably take me back to the palace.” She paused, adding a bitter tone to her last words on the subject. “Go find your meal somewhere else.”

Ome gripped Ginger’s reins, leading her back through the leaves, passing by a frustrated Sleeper, who dutifully maintained his distance from the horse. She led Ginger to the water hole, and there the mare cheerily trotted over and lowered her head for a drink. Releasing the reins, Ome returned to the spot where she awoke. Wall abandoned his position behind the canopy of flora, following the human. He kneeled on the ground beside her, running his hands along his clean skin, peering at the water from which Ginger drank. Ome studied her clothing as it dried in the grass, then said, “Yeah, thanks for that. I probably smelled like shit…”

Nodding, Wall pointed at her and closed his eyes, brushing the back of his hand along his forehead.

“I passed out?”

Wall smiled.

“I assumed as much.” She rolled her eyes at her own absurd fragility.

Wall pointed at Ginger, then back at Ome.

“Uh. Hm.” She hesitated, analyzing what he meant. “Y-yes. I said she was our horse – from the carriage. _We_ traveled together.”

Wall tilted his head, confused by Ome’s admittance of dangerous travel.

“I was on my way to see someone,” she explained, completely understanding his puzzlement. Why the hell _would_ anyone travel through these woods? The same question gnawed at Ome since she had woken up.

Wall lifted the edge of his hand to his eyebrows and squinted, mimicking a lookout. Then he pointed at himself.

“You were watching us?”

He nodded.

Ome lifted an eyebrow. “Were you _following_ us?”

Wall smiled and nodded again, moving closer to her. He ran his hands over her wet hair, studying its texture with a surge of curiosity. Gliding his fingers along Ome’s neck, he found his way to her exposed body, naively touching the human in inappropriate places. As soon as his hands covered her nipples, she recoiled and exclaimed, “That’s enough!” The Sleeper quickly pulled back his hands, blinking his black eyes curiously at Ome. She cleared her throat. “Sorry…” her voice softened. “Just – just stop _that_, ok?”

Wall tilted his head in a silent question, having no concept of keeping one’s hands to one’s self. Then he leaned forward until his nose nearly touched hers, violating Ome’s personal space yet again. Unused to such close contact, she pulled her head away. He grinned, delicately amused by her reaction. Then Wall pointed to the road just beyond the trees, shaking his head questionably at the human.

“Uh…” Ome pursed her lips, toiling with another translation of the Sleeper’s gestures. “Where am I headed?”

Wall smiled gently, keeping his distance for the time being.

“I was on my way to see someone named Artorius. Brush – that Captain back in Fore, recommended him. This guy might be the only one who can send me home.” Ome briefly fell quiet and looked down at her knees. She mumbled, “But now, well, _forget_ it. The guy in charge of the carriage knew the route. He’s dead...”

Wall grabbed Ome by her naked shoulder.

“Hey!” she yelled, wishing he’d stop fondling at her like that.

The Sleeper gave a broad smile and pointed to himself.

“_You_ know the way?”

He nodded.

Ome sighed. “Well _that’s_ fortunate.” She crossed her left arm over her belly, resting her right elbow against it. Leaning her chin into her right hand, Ome considered what little options she had. “Can you possibly take me there tomorrow morning?”

Wall pulled the human into his arms, hugging her tight. He smiled softly and gave a gentle nod. Ome wasn’t comfortable with his repetitive display of friendliness, but the creature was persistent. Regardless, the more he did it, the more she wondered _how_ starved for affection Sleepers were. As Wall hugged her close, brushing against her like an affectionate cat, her skin smoothly rubbed up against his. For a moment, she was exhilarated by the sleek warmth of Wall’s body. But in that stumble of exhilaration, she couldn’t help but remember the way Brush described the Sleepers. _Monsters who fed upon the hearts of the Yoth_. But Wall didn’t seem intent on hurting Ome. He wasn’t even fazed by the fact that she was mostly nude. Ome had discovered a side of the creatures Yoth had never seen. She entertained the idea of telling Brush all about Wall’s behavior, but immediately determined the Captain wouldn’t believe a word of it.

The Sleeper inched his face closer to Ome’s, inspecting her for even the tiniest shred of attention. She watched as he scanned those ebony eyes across her naked body, scrutinizing every part of her as if she were a fresh, untouched flower. But there was no malice in his body language – only curiosity. The Sleeper gently, but deliberately, kept the human in his grasp, monitoring her as if she were a pot of water, teetering on that moment just before the anticipated boil. All in all – Ome became _Wall’s_, it seemed. He had _claimed_ this new creature, enamored by her alien qualities. Her appearance, uncharacteristic to the world of Lot, greatly differed from the people who feared and hunted him. He found her mortality exotic, accompanied by things like dissected fingers and uncontrollable panic. Wall had never seen such injuries or behavior. Inquisitiveness gripped him. He was curious as to why Ome was the way she was. Why did her humanity pierce him with muted questions? And so he kept her close – close enough to smell her human skin and feel the beat of her human heart.

As for Ome, she was at a loss. She thought, sometimes when animals follow you home, there’s a reason your parents tell you that you can’t keep them. But Ome didn’t have the luxury of overprotective parents, so she kept her own wits about her – for what little they were worth.


	12. Chapter 12

The art of Alchemy was by no means easy. Mixing agents wasn’t simple. Often times, combinations of agents were a complete waste of effort, turning valuable ingredients into useless slop. Artorius knew this and so he kept his home well-stocked. His shelves were lined with bottles of odd shapes and sizes. Any container able to hold components did just that. Bowls packed with crafting powders were kept high up, near jars filled with roots and herbs, even rare fixings such as sprite fingertips and sun salt. Surrounded by a plethora of ingredients, Artorius hunched over his crafting table, pressing leaves and animal parts into thick substances that sometimes turned blue, other times purple. He’d have to test each one of them – typically on himself – but at times he _did_ subject a poor woodland beast to the questionable results. He never wanted to hurt anything, but one couldn’t be a Wizard if he were deformed or dead – best to experiment with certain elements on lesser creatures.

Admittedly, Artorius wasn’t always a Wizard. His abilities weren’t ingrained through genetic conveniences. He was, in fact, born quite mortal. But King Mer, his true friend, taught him the ways of magic. Mer knew everything there was to know about it. Potions, spells, glamour – every one of those. Given the King’s _origins_, Artorius was unsurprised at Mer’s abilities.

But he and his friend had grown apart.

However, that didn’t matter anymore. Artorius had come a _long_ way. He knew about as much as Mer knew. Or at least, he told himself that. Sometimes Artorius convinced himself that he knew _more_ than King Mer. His basis for argument was that Mer didn’t _practice_ magic anymore. The King was more interested in those _other_ things – engines and propellers and combustion – those ridiculous things! At this point, Mer’s life was consumed with nothing more than metal, gears, and smoke. His interests greatly deviated from what he was, what he _truly_ was; the other half of King Mer – that magical half which brought Artorius to the very place he now stood.

A twinge of pain. The Wizard’s back hurt from hunching for such long periods, and so he stood and stretched. While doing so, he spotted something moving beyond his cottage window. It looked like a horse. The horse appeared to be ridden by a small figure, and there was a stunning familiarity about the equine’s clothing. _From the Fore district? _Artorius rubbed his eyes, wondering if they played tricks on him. _Indeed! The Fore district!_

Heset down his instruments, brushed his hands against his apron, and hustled to the front door. Pulling it open, the Wizard ducked through the archway and poked his head outside.“Who’s there?” he called, waiting for the rider to approach. As moments passed, the unexpected guest advanced nearer. Artorius stole a closer look – it was a young woman. The Wizard held his breath when she and her horse trotted closer into view. _She isn’t Yoth. _The woman jumped down from the animal and raised both her hands to indicate she meant no harm. Her hair, her clothing – they were _foreign_, yet, all too recognizable._ She’s human._

“I’m looking for Artorius,” she called back. “My name’s Ome. Brush sent me.”

“_Brush_,” Artorius softly echoed, thinking deeply on her name. Hiding a swell of emotion, he diverted his gaze from Ome’s, looking to the trees that bordered the path along his cottage. Two black eyes peered from behind their leaves. Staring, Artorius was fully aware to which creature they belonged. “What does Brush want?” he asked, still looking off into the trees. “What do _you _want?”

“She said you could help me.”

The Wizard shifted his eyes back onto the woman. “Do you often travel these woods alone?”

“I wasn’t alone at first,” argued Ome. Her voice dropped into a remorseful tone. “There was an attack,” she added.

“Tell me,” he said, gesturing to the creature who _obviously_ hid behind the trees, “do you typically travel with demons or is today a special occasion on _my_ account?”

Ome closed her eyes and nodded, understanding there was no fooling someone like Artorius. “We’re not here to cause any trouble,” she promised. “I told him to stay back. I think he’ll do what I say. Don’t ask me why, but he _will_.”

Artorius sighed, then cleared his throat. “I can see that you’ve been through Hell,” he said. “In fact, the blood stains on your garments suggest you’ve had quite a trip getting there.” He shook his head. “As far as helping you, I’ll see what I can do. You’re _both_ welcome to come in. You’ll find, my dear, that when it comes to being a Wizard, there’s little need to fear demons.”

Ome laughed nervously. However, she was convinced this mysterious Wizard in the woods might actually have answers. She motioned for Wall to climb down from the massive oak. He jumped through its branches and landed on his feet, standing tall and naked, his wings spread like fans bustled to his shoulders. Wall tucked his hair behind pointed ears, craning a long, agile neck as he stared at the cottage. The Sleeper was familiar with the area, but only half-familiar with Artorius, himself.

“It’s alright,” said Ome. “He said you can come in.”

Wall looked at her with hesitation. He had never been _invited_ inside of a home before. The Sleeper wasn’t dumb to the fact that his kind barged into homes, typically brutalizing the residents within. Nor was he ignorant to the possibility of a _trap_. And furthermore, Wall was all too aware that this _Artorius_ was strange, wielding magic that has easily trapped and killed Sleepers before. On any given day, he would have rejected the invitation. But on _that_ day, Wall felt a sensation that might have guided him through flames – Ome had slipped her hand into his. He felt the warmth of her palm as her small fingers delicately glided between his digits, tugging at him with a gentle authority.

“You’ll be fine. Come on,” she said, surprised by her own courage. How boldly she promised to protect such a creature! Wall looked at Ome with a tenderness that was much too camouflaged by his cold inhuman eyes. In spite of the human’s ignorance, the Sleeper beamed with warmth for her. Then, Wall briefly closed his eyes, giving a slight nod as he followed Ome through the archway. The two entered the cottage of Artorius – the Wizard of Lot.

Once inside, Artorius asked his guests to sit. Ome scanned the Wizard’s physical features, familiarizing herself with him. He was dashing, to say the least. Not the typical image she had in mind for a _Wizard_. He didn’t have long, gray hair and a dirty old beard, accompanied by haggard eyes and sagging skin. No. Artorius was younger, perhaps in his later thirties or early forties. And not haggard at all – he was fairly muscular along the arms. And it appeared he had a rather strong back, likely from carting around what could only be described as a slew of random crap he apparently hoarded within his cottage. His face was chiseled with a striking comeliness that didn’t feel all that characteristic of a Yoth male. High cheekbones and strong chins didn’t seem popular among their genetics. Admittedly, Ome hadn’t found any of the Yoth males all that handsome. But Artorius was one of a kind, wasn’t he? Handsome _indeed_. He even had a thin mask of rugged facial hair, trimmed, though not as green as the long, wavy hair on his head. His five o clock shadow was a darker shade of green – it almost looked black due to its undersized length. Artorius smiled, which wasn’t exactly a _handsome_ smile, but it made him look attractively clever.

The Wizard offered tea or milk and Ome opted for tea. He promptly stood at a strange table waving his fingers in a pattern until two steaming cups appeared from thin air. Handing one cup to Ome, Artorius said, “It’s my own recipe. I’ve been working on it for a while now. I’m just glad I get to finally share it with someone. You’re tasting a blend of Faunlier leaves and orange rind. I added some goat’s cream and cinnamon to give it that rich flavor but try it whichever way you like.”

Wall sat beside Ome on a bench made from tree bark. He moved closer to her as Artorius shuffled about the room, clearing away space. The Wizard overturned a chair that was filled with bottles, leaves, and household junk. Then he nestled down in it with his cup of tea. “Forgive the mess,” he frowned. “I don’t entertain company often.” He paused. “More like _never_. This is a dangerous region to be traveling. I gather the creature has kept you alive in these woods?”

“Yes,” replied Ome. “My carriage was attacked. I was the only one who survived.” She looked at Wall, then added, “He arrived just in time.”

Artorius stifled a laugh, “You understand it’s usually the other way around, right? That the Sleepers are the ones doing the attacking.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Then how is it that this one decided to rescue you from – _what_ was it that attacked you now?” Artorius sipped his tea, eyeing the demon suspiciously.

“Big brown hairy things,” said Ome, shuddering at the memory.

“Trolls, I assume,” replied Artorius. “Though there are hundreds of other creatures that meet that poor description – none would require the aid of a Sleeper.” Ome’s face twisted in on itself as she determined if whether or not the Wizard was insulting her intelligence. “Tell me,” he continued, disallowing her to think on it further, “was the demon idly standing by when it happened? Or do you two have a history?”

“He knows me,” confessed Ome. “We met two nights ago. But he hasn’t tried to hurt me. Well… eh… he…” Stammering, her voice trailed off a moment. She coughed, clearing her throat, collecting her thoughts. “When we met, he _intended_ to hurt me – I think. But something, I dunno, _changed_.” She anxiously rubbed her eyebrow, glancing at Wall, then back at Artorius, “Wall doesn’t fit the profile they described of Sleepers.”

“And I’m sure he’s fascinated that you don’t fit the description of any Yoth,” noted Artorius. Then he pursed his lips. “Now forgive me, but did you just call him _Wall?_”

“That’s his name.”

“A fitting name for a Sleeper,” laughed the Wizard. He sipped his tea. “Tell me, how long have you been in Lot?”

“Not long, actually. A few days. That’s why I came here.” Ome looked down at her lap. “I need to get _home_.”

Artorius smiled that same clever grin, then laughed before blowing the steam from the surface of his cup. He took another sip and then set it down. “And – let me guess – _Brush_ told you I could do that? Send you home, eh?”

“Not exactly,” said Ome. “She said you might be able to help, but she didn’t promise anything.”

“That sounds a bit more like the Brush I know.” Artorius rested his chin in his hand. “Do you know how you got here? How to transport?”

“Yeah, actually, Nim explained the _Dactyls_.”

“Ah. Yes. _She_ knows all about those, _doesn’t_ she?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it wasn’t _me_ who crafted them. It was Mer. Her husband.”

Disappointed, Ome looked down and said, “So, what’re you saying? I should’ve gone to Mer instead, huh? You can’t help me then?”

Sighing, Artorius changed the subject. “You must be hungry. Come, we’ll eat supper, then talk more.”

* * *

Artorius delivered a hefty bag of oats to Ginger who immediately sank her nose between the burlap, gobbling the food like a famished stray. Satisfied that the _horse_ was satisfied, he returned to the cottage. Drifting from the den to the kitchen, he instructed Ome where to set the plates and forks at the supper table. Wall remained in the corner, watching intently, as quiet as death.

Artorius conjured up various foods much like the ones from Nim’s palace. Ome, however, noticed that he cooked up _meat_ and set it on the table beside the usual items. “Please sit,” he instructed, pulling out a chair.

She did as requested. Artorius moved to the opposite end of the table.

“So, meat, huh?” observed Ome. “Nim told me Yoth don’t eat it.”

“Oh…” said Artorius. He pressed his lips together, staring at the plate of steamy tenderloins, littered with aromatic seasonings. “I set that out for you.” There was an awkward silence as the Wizard smiled nervously, handing the bowl of roasted meat to Ome. She spooned some onto her plate, wondering why he seemed so _different_ from other Yoth. The fact that he invited a Sleeper into his home was curious enough. “So,” he continued, “how well have you gotten to know Brush?”

“She’s just an acquaintance really. Everyone I’ve met in Fore is. I haven’t been there long. I accidentally went through a Dactyl and ended up in the woods just outside the palace. They took me in. In fact, they’ve all been pretty hospitable. I even dined with Brush _and_ the Queen. I never thought I’d have dinner in a palace – or with a _Queen_!”

“You’ve eaten with them, eh?”

Ome took a bite of a baked potato and drank honey water to wash it down. “That’s what I said.”

“And during those meals have you _heard_ anything?”

Ome furrowed her brow. “_Heard_ anything?”

Artorius raised a cup of ale to his lips, casually sipping as he poked his potatoes with a fork. Lifting the utensil he popped a hunk of food into his mouth and chewed. With a cheek-full of potato he explained, “News. Gossip. Information. _Anything_? Haven’t lived in Fore in awhile. Like to know what’s going on.” With another swig of ale, the Wizard swallowed.

“Well,” said Ome, “There was a funeral.”

“Whose?”

“I forget his name. He was killed by a–” Ome’s eyes darted over at Wall. The Sleeper, in spite of his foreboding appearance and empty eyes, looked back at her innocently.

“It’s alright,” said Artorius. “I can venture to guess.” He gestured for Ome to continue eating. “Anything else?”

Squinting one eye, Ome thought on it. What else had been going on? “Brush mentioned a peace treaty,” she added. “She was pretty adamant about getting the ball rolling before meeting up with someone named Spring.”

Artorius narrowed his eyes. “_Spring_?”

“Yeah. Spring.”

The Wizard pounded a fist into the table. “Shit!”

Startled, Ome jumped. Wall sprang to his feet, readying himself for a fight.

Artorius composed himself. “I – I’m sorry about that. I lost my temper for a moment.”

Ome turned toward Wall and held up her hand. “It’s fine. Sit _down_.” Then, she stared at Artorius. “Are you ok?”

The Wizard plopped his elbows on the table with a unanimous _thud. _He clapped his palms against his cheeks, shaking his head. “No – no. Everything is terribly wrong.”

“_What_?” asked Ome, raising an eyebrow. “What’s the matter?”

Artorius sighed. “I _know_ Spring. And I know Brush – _very_ well, in fact. I shouldn’t have trusted her with it. I thought I could. How foolish of me! I know _he_ will want it…”

“Want _what_?”

“The weapon! I gave it to her.” Artorius’ eyes fell as his voice softly drifted. “Oh Ome…”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ome shook her head, setting down her fork and knife. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her bare, dirty arms over the thick sweatshirt of her narrow chest.

“This world is in danger,” blurted Artorius. “And it’s _my_ fault! Brush is going to _speak_ with _Spring_? I know exactly what he’ll want from her – that weapon!”

Uncrossing and fanning her arms out in a theatrical swoop, Ome cried, “_What_ weapon?!”

“The Sword of course! Dashosgrehm – the damned thing! What have I done? _Grehm_ you foul thing!” Artorius pounded his fist to the table again. “But _he_ can’t use it. None of them can! Only I can! So, he’ll likely want it destroyed. And that’s bad enough, unless…” His face dropped. “Unless something _worse_ should happen!”

“_Worse_?”

“It could fall in the wrong hands. They could come _after_ me, force me against my will – I don’t know!”

Ome began to feel unsettled. Paranoia didn’t just end at the Fore border. It seemed to trickle far back into the Clip Woods, all the way to Artorius.

The Wizard stood, moving away from the table, giving himself room. Then he announced, “There’s something I must show you. I’ve never shown this to anyone – not even to Brush – my own _wife_!”

“_Brush_?!” yelled Ome. “Your wife is _Brush_?” The Captain never mentioned her husband’s name. If Ome remembered correctly, Brush didn’t even want to discuss it – despite Nim’s amusement over the subject. Given what Ome knew about Brush’s relationship with Spring, Artorius’ behavior was finally making some sense.

“Yes,” admit Artorius. “She was – well, technically still _is_ – my wife. I can explain everything at a later time, but first I must _show_ you something. This greatly concerns _you_.”

“_Me_?” Ome’s eyes went wide. Defensively, she held up her palms. “I don’t even know you people!”

The Wizard lifted his hands to his face, stretching his fingers tight as if he were fanning himself in a very slow motion. He moved his hands around, slowly, and Ome watched as the green faded from his hair and eyes, turning their pigments auburn and hazel. The color of his skin lightened a bit, its shade much closer to Ome’s. As the coloration shifted into place, Artorius stopped waving his hands about, letting them fall to his side.

“I don’t understand,” said Ome. “You changed – eh – _colors_.”

“Don’t you see?” said Artorius. “This is what I actually look like. This is my true appearance.”

Shocked but strangely relieved, Ome suggested, “You’re _human_?”

“No one knows.” The Wizard paused. “Well, no one except King Mer…”

“But – but how did you–”

“–Long story,” Artorius interrupted. Then he added, “But yes. I’m human, like _you_. I came here a long time ago with Mer. Here he met Nim, and I met Brush. She and I married. I couldn’t leave this life behind. Mer taught me the magic he knew, helping me to keep up this disguise for _so_ many years. Eventually I learned on my own, picking up more and more abilities _here – _in _this_ world.” Artorius licked his lips as though he were on the verge of an epiphany. He hurried over to Ome’s seat, kneeling down beside it, looking her right in the eye. “You know as well as I do – _we_ have no magic where we come from. You _know_ that. But here? Humans are _powerful_.”

“We are?” Ome scrunched her face, rearing away from Artorius as he urgently knelt beside her like a man offering his hand in marriage. “But – _how_?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Look around you. _Look_ what I’m capable of.”

“But you live in a cottage out in the middle of _nowhere_. And this place is full of junk. Nim runs an entire kingdom. Apparently Mer does too. They aren’t magical. But they’re obviously powerful people.”

“Ah,” Artorius lifted a finger, correcting Ome’s observation. “_Nim_ is not magical, no. But Mer _is_.”

“So…” said Ome, thinking very hard, “does that mean Mer is human too?”

Artorius shook his head. “Half,” he answered.

“Well then what’s the _other_ half?”

Artorius smirked, shaking his head. “I can explain that later…”

Annoyed, Ome crossed her arms.

“For now, let me explain the Sword. _Dashosgrehm_. Brush has it. I’m a fool! I gave it to her. But Grehm must _not_ be destroyed or stolen. And now I fear the worst if Spring is involved.”

Confused, Ome wrinkled up her nose. “What’s so special about a _sword_?”

“Everything. Only a human, like me, can wield it. Yoth can’t. They have no power over it.” Pausing, the Wizard’s eyes lit up. “That means _you_ could potentially use it too! Or Mer, as he is half human. Though I doubt he would be as capable since he _is _only half.” Artorius raised a hand, waving away his rambling and continued to answer Ome’s question. “Grehm isn’t just an ordinary sword. It is _the_ Sword. It has the power to call forth _Pen_.”

“Pen? Who’s Pen?”

Artorius smiled.

Ome frowned. “Wait, wait let me guess – you’ll explain that later.”

“You’re getting to know me well.”

Ome stood, walking away from the table, heading into the den. Exhausted, she slumped down onto a pile of cushions and blankets. Wall followed, crouching beside her on neighboring linens. Draping his long, powerful arms around Ome, he hugged her tight. She wriggled from his embrace, assuring him that it was unnecessary. He ignored her, gripping her again, pulling Ome close. She pulled away once more and Wall conceded, but remained nearby.

Artorius witnessed the display and commented, “Demon – er – _Wall_, that is, do you know _why_ you covet this human so much?”

Unable to vocally respond, and disinterested in engaging the capricious Wizard, Wall ignored him.

Ome perked up. “I’d like to know. I don’t understand it. All I’ve heard since I arrived was how nasty and violent Sleepers are.”

Artorius laughed as he strolled to a chair. Sitting, he said, “Humans have an interesting effect on Sleepers. The demons don’t see them as prey – just as mates.”

Ome stared at Artorius in disbelief. “Are you _kidding_ me?”

He laughed again. “It’s more than _that_. This one obviously has feelings for you. Don’t underestimate them, Ome. These creatures are misunderstood in a world of people who fear them.”

“And rightly so.”

“Yes, rightly so. They are vicious. Truly despicable things, really.”

Wall scowled.

“But,” continued Artorius, “this demon appears genuine in his affinity for you. Hell, the thing downright _adores_ you. That much is obvious. I know I wouldn’t step between he and his…” The Wizard gave an amused snort. “His _object of desire_.”

Ome lifted her chin, narrowing her eyes at Artorius. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Not at all. I’m just saying that it’s clear that Wall has _claimed_ you in a way. He won’t leave your side. Sometimes…” Artorius trailed off.

Ome glared at him, then blinked her eyes impatiently as she glanced away, annoyed.

“Sometimes,” added Artorius, “you can’t get loyalty like _that_ anywhere else.” He clenched his teeth.

Wall listened to the others speak of him as if he weren’t in the room. He remained quiet, keeping an eye on Artorius. Ome looked down at her lap, biting her lower lip. “Why don’t Sleepers talk?” she asked, gazing down at the soiled denim across her legs. “Why don’t they make _any_ sound?”

“Well,” explained Artorius, “I assume so they can hunt better. They are _hunters_, after all. Stealth is everything.” He hesitated in a moment of reflection. “But…”

“_But_?”

“But I’ve heard other explanations. Some say there was a curse put on the Sleepers. They understand speech and they _wish_ to speak, but for some reason – they won’t.”

“They won’t?” asked Ome. “Or they _can’t_?”

Artorius grinned. “_Good_ question.”

Drowsiness slowly crept behind the lids of Ome’s eyes. It had been a long, brutal day, full of way too much stress and overstimulation. “Artorius,” she said in mid-yawn.

“Yes?”

“_Why_ did you tell me you’re human? You said it _greatly_ concerned me. How?”

“Because,” he answered, his voice as equally as tired as hers, “I’m going to need your help.”

“How?”

“I’ll have you accompany Brush when she meets Spring.”

“What?” asked Ome. “Why?”

“Grehm can’t fall into the wrong hands,” Artorius insisted. “And I can’t be there to make sure of it. I’m exiled. Nim would never stand for it.”

“So you gave away a weapon you can’t even keep track of?”

“I suppose I did,” confessed Artorius. “But with your help, I can rectify that. I’d like to put you in charge of Grehm’s safety. You’re neutral – and you’re human, which gives you an advantage. Should something go wrong, you can bring the Sword back to me. Brush can’t defend herself with it, nor does she even know how. And she’d never return it to me, not if that _Queen_ has anything to say about it.” He sighed.

“And how am I gonna do all this? I’m not exactly the kind of person for _this_ kind of job.”

“I have spells and potions for you. Ways to keep Brush and the Sword from harm.”

“And me. Keep _me_ from harm,” Ome added stringently. Shaking her head, she asked, “Is the Sword really that big of a deal? Why’d you even give it to Brush to begin with?”

“I want to make peace with her and her people. I want to be welcomed back into Fore – _someday_.” Artorius scratched his head and looked away, peering out a small window on the far wall. Sadness perched quietly on his shoulders, draping its fingers around the stillness of his eyes. The Wizard was deep in thought about his estranged wife.

“You miss her,” said Ome.

Artorius nodded. “I don’t claim to have acted rationally when giving the Sword to Brush. But what’s done is done. In her mind, Grehm is now property of Fore.” He rubbed his temples. “Everything would be fine except that I don’t want _Spring_ anywhere near that weapon. He’s swine. We are, to say the least, _not_ on good terms.”

“Yeah, I know about Spring,” said Ome. “I heard that he and Brush – well, you know.”

“_Yes_.”

Ome sat quietly. Wall inched closer to her, ignoring her earlier protests. On a second attempt, he wrapped his arms around her. She was so tired that she didn’t protest. Cushioned against his firm, warm muscles, Ome found unanticipated comfort. The room grew darker as the sun set beyond the cottage window. “I’ll agree to help you on one condition,” she said, sleepily. Too tired to argue, she allowed Wall to do as he pleased, soothed by the soft heat of his skin.

“What’s that?” asked Artorius.

“Put your _magic _to use and send me home. Otherwise – _no deal_.” She yawned, blinking her heavy eyes. Wall squeezed Ome protectively, locking his eyes onto the Wizard.

“Very well,” he agreed. “Then we have much to do in the morning.”

She was fast asleep, breathing heavy against the Sleeper’s chest. Wall glared at Artorius from across the small room. The Wizard couldn’t help but take notice.

“I worry about you, demon,” he said to Wall. “I think I know what it is _you_ want. But _that_ I cannot give you. And one should beg the question – do you even _deserve_ it?”

* * *

Ome awoke, still in the same position on the floor of Artorius’ den. Wall was no longer with her. She stood and looked around the cottage before making her way through a small, cramped bedroom. To her delight, she discovered that her host had assembled a crude shower from pumps and pipes installed into what might have once been a closet. Whatever it was, a drain had been built into the floor, allowing for proper effusion of water. The machine had to be pumped by foot for several minutes to operate the mechanisms but when it kicked on, it produced the warmest, most welcoming shower that Ome could have died for.

Her muscles still ached from tumbling out the carriage when the trolls attacked. A shower was quite the relief. However, pumping the machine provided Ome’s legs with additional pain before she was able to enjoy some iota of comfort. As the warm water trickled from her black hair down to her ankles, she felt good. For the _first_ time since arriving to Lot, Ome truly felt comfortable.

She realized she missed the silence. The hum of water, as it sprayed heavily against her scalp, hypnotized her into a relaxing trance. Ome’s brain focused on no other sound – everything else around her was quiet, unchanging. It was at that moment, she felt like the only person in the world. Which world? It didn’t matter.

Eventually, Ome had to end her shower, remorsefully allowing the water to subside once the pump ran out. She dried herself with absorbent linens, fixing her hair in Artorius’ crooked bedroom mirror. Staring at her reflection, Ome noticed Wall had silently reentered the den, gazing in from the other room. Caught off guard, she jumped at the sight of him – a tall, naked figure in the corner, wings fallen to his sides. Then she laughed in a rush of embarrassment. “What’s the matter?” asked Ome, noticing his distracted expression. “Why are you way over there? I can barely see you.”

Wall didn’t move.

Ome stepped into the den. “Wall?” she asked, “What’s wrong?” But he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed _beyond_ Ome and on the candle that lit the bedroom. She turned around, noticing its fire flickering in the distance. “Oh,” she sighed, exiting Artorius’ bedroom, approaching Wall in the darkness. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t see without it.”

Wall reached for her, touching his hand to hers. At first, his dark eyes were still engrossed by the candle, absorbed in its foreboding movement. The flame’s shape danced in a miniature reflection across the Sleeper’s stare. But then his attention turned back to Ome. She held his hand, curiously inspecting his face for any range of emotion. It seemed Wall’s emotions were the only way to harbor communication, and so Ome found herself often seeking them out. “I want to thank you again,” she said. “Those trolls…”

Wall touched his hand to her cheek, caressing it with his thumb. He brushed wet hair from her face, pausing a moment to admire its ebony color. Ome half smiled, pulling away to look for something to tie the hair back. She paced around the den noticing odd things on the worktable and shelves. Such were effects she hadn’t seen before. Though most of the bowls and boxes were full of chemical agents and chemist’s tools, there were also scattered containers filled with equipment from her world – recognizable things like bottle caps, measuring cups, and rubber bands. Items that obviously didn’t originate from Lot.

“I don’t get much sun in the morning. We need to rethink our source of light,” Artorius proposed, standing outside the front door. He stepped into the house, carrying leather sacks brimming with dried leaves. He walked over to several globes that hung from the ceiling. The Wizard touched each one with his index finger and they illuminated, filling the room with a soft light that was comfortable on the eyes. After that, he marched into his bedroom and extinguished the candle. Returning to the den, Artorius smirked at Wall and said, “I know your kind doesn’t like an open flame. What sort of host am I? I should have thought of that before sundown.”

“So, why _do_ you have all these things from our world?” Ome asked, sifting through a tub of old plastic milk jugs.

“You can’t imagine how some of the most mundane items are suddenly useful upon their arrival here,” replied Artorius. “When Mer and I traveled back and forth, we’d bring back whatever we could. Eventually, we realized most of it was crap. True, when things are brought here, they find a new purpose and a new role. _But_ say I brought an electric mixer, what purpose would it serve without an outlet?”

“Did you bring a mixer?”

Artorius pointed across the room. Ome noticed the coat hanger by the door was nothing more than an electric mixer affixed to the wall. Its power cord had been used to tie the appliance to a post.

“So wait,” Ome chided, “if you brought an _electric mixer_ back from our world, then when were you born? What year did you arrive here?”

Embarrassed, Artorius stifled a laugh. “I’ve been back and forth so many times, but it doesn’t quite work the way you think it does. Time between worlds doesn’t move in tandem. Let’s just put it this way – I’m not modern and certainly not an American.”

“What?” asked Ome.

Artorius flashed a grin.

The Sleeper listened carefully, watching them. Wall began to wonder about Ome’s world. The way she talked, it seemed like a very different place. Sadness briefly gripped him when he realized what might become of her once she found her path home.

“And what about Wall?” asked Ome. “Is he from another world, too?”

“Ah, the Sleepers, yes,” said Artorius, sorting his thoughts. “I mean _no_. That is, well, I’m not sure. They come from the Yield, north of here. And frankly I don’t know where it opened up _from_. Somewhere deep – very deep. That’s all I gather. And though the Sleepers have never threatened me, I’m uncomfortable being anywhere _near_ the Yield.”

“Then what _are_ they, exactly?”

“I suspect they’re somehow part of this place,” Artorius admitted. “At one time, I don’t think they were. But _now_ they are. Lot is full of many strange creatures, but none like the Sleepers. None quite as dangerous to the Yoth. The Sleepers just sprung up out of nowhere one day. I imagine their role is part of some _natural_ evolution.” The Wizard pursed his lips and tilted his head. “What century are you from again?”

“Twenty-first.”

“Very well. Then you know of Darwin, right? Theory of evolution?”

“Yeah.”

“I suspect the Sleepers are part of a natural progression for this world. They’re here because they _have_ to be. You and I, on the other hand–”

“–We’re the real outsiders.”

Artorius nodded. “Yes. But we don’t _have_ to be. I mean, I know you want to go home, but it’s not impossible to adapt. I enjoy being a Yoth. I know I have to wear a disguise but…” He bit his lip, looking around his den. “…but this is my home.” He smiled.

“Wherever you’re comfortable, I guess.” Ome shrugged.

“Like I said, things from our world can work differently here. I can’t explain how but _here_ I found myself capable of incredible feats.” He gestured with his hands and the lights in the room changed colors. “A bit of science from home mixed with the natural wonders of Lot, and suddenly I’m a Wizard. But it _has_ taken mastery over elements of _both_ worlds.”

“It _is_ incredible,” remarked Ome, dazzled by the sudden flow of red, then yellow, then green. The room swelled with soft colors, illuminating her against the dark backdrop of clutter. She looked over and saw Wall covered by a striking blue light that reflected against the pallid canvas of his skin. The Sleeper outstretched his arms, quizzically inspecting the colorful lights against his body.

“Yes,” Artorius agreed. “And as you can imagine, over the centuries many bits of wonder from _this_ place have leaked into _our_ world. That is the nature of things, isn’t it?”

“I don’t have to imagine,” sighed Ome. “I found one of those _bits of wonder_ in my own damn basement.” She stretched, suddenly realizing how much her muscles still ached and found herself leaning gently against Wall’s shoulder. Ome looked at him and smiled, readjusting her posture.

“Well, let’s get ready,” said Artorius. “We have a long day ahead of us.”


	13. Chapter 13

“What do you mean he’s not back yet?” demanded Brush. Weden stared at her, unable to elaborate further on what he had _already_ explained.

“The rangers aren’t back yet,” he repeated, urgently showing her the duty roster. “We can’t put Fox on guard duty. We’ll have to choose someone else.”

The Captain and her Lieutenant stood just inside the barracks, checking over the day’s agendas as usual. Around them, Fore soldiers moved about, strapping thick hide and metal to their chests and arms, checking and rechecking the balance and sharpness of their blades. Recruits mumbled to one another over and over again, debating on which torches to leave out for the overnight guards.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” griped Brush. “He was supposed to report back as soon as the carriage arrived. The rangers were told to set up camp and send Fox with another to give us an update.”

“It’s nearly a day’s travel by foot, perhaps we should give them more time,” said Weden.

“No.” Brush began to pace. “Something’s wrong.”

Frustrated, Weden frowned at his Captain who had been acting over-emotional, which wasn’t like her. He didn’t know how else to cope with it other than to simply ignore her – but day in and day out, that proved difficult. And although he came close many times, Weden couldn’t bring himself to putting the Captain in her place – not without consequence. “Look,” he reasoned, “maybe it took longer than expected to get there. Whipp’s horse is getting old – maybe he doesn’t want to push her as hard as he used to.”

Brush crossed her arms and stopped pacing. “No.” She shook her head at the very idea. “If they were delayed, Gurt would have sent word. Something isn’t right.” The Captain balled her hand into a fist and gently pounded it against her other hand, thinking long and hard on the situation. “We took _every_ precaution.”

Weden dropped the duty roster to the floor, placed his hands on his hips, and asked, “Then what do we do?”

“Well, we have to find them,” Brush mumbled, gazing off deep in thought. “I _know_ something’s wrong. I can feel it.” She paused. “There’s _no_ reason why Whipp shouldn’t have made it before sundown. And the rangers can travel the woods quickly, even at night.” Her vacant, contemplative stare narrowed into focus as she added, “We _need_ to find them.”

“Very well,” said Weden. His eyes gave a slight roll but he quickly turned his head to avoid the Captain’s notice. “I’ll organize a squad and send them out,” he promised.

“No,” said Brush. “I’m going along.”

“What about the peace talks? Aren’t you meeting with Nim today?”

“It can wait. We’ve addressed most of the treaty and I’ve already sent word to Wheel to schedule negotiations. I’m meeting with Spring in just two days. There’s enough time to check on Whipp and the others.”

Weden dropped his hands from his hips and straightened his posture. “Very well. I await your orders.”

Brush eyed her Lieutenant. “Good,” she said. “Form a squad. No less than eight soldiers, plus me and you. I want two carriages. You and three Corporals will take one. I and the remaining three will take the other. _No_ coachmen – I want a trained soldier at each set of reins.”

“That makes ten,” observed Weden.

“Yes it does, Lieutenant,” said Brush, sharply. “Now get to it – that’s an order.”

* * *

Artorius’ voice carried on just outside the cottage. “You can’t come with us, but you’re welcome to stay here. We should be back before late this evening.”

Standing at the window, Ome peeked out, watching the Wizard who had already returned to his Yoth form. He spoke to Wall who appeared worried, even a little angry. Ome made her way through the main door, opening it to step outside. She approached the two of them, interrupting Artorius as he reassured Wall no harm would come to Ome.

“What’s going on?” she asked. As she marched forward, Wall reached for her hand, pulling her closer. Ome hesitated a moment before letting him do as he pleased.

“He’s upset that I plan to take you to the Wheel district.”

“And _how_ did he tell you that?” she asked.

“Trust me,” smiled Artorius. “I can read a Sleeper – they’re nothing but shuddering balls of emotion.”

Wall charged forward. Spreading his wings as he broadened his shoulders, the Sleeper puffed out the sinewy muscles of his lean, sculpted chest. He came nose-to-nose with Artorius, standing inches upon inches taller than the Wizard had anticipated. Before the two forces could collide any further, Ome darted between them, facing down Wall as she pushed him back to where he originally stood. “That’s enough,” she said. “And,” she added, glaring over her shoulder at Artorius, “why do we need to go to_ Wheel_?”

“For one,” he explained, pointing a matter-of-factly index finger, “I need to do a bit of shopping. I’m low on supplies and Wheel is the only place to get what I need.”

“You mean ingredients for your spells – right?”

Artorius nodded. “I’m low on components to keep up this disguise.” He gestured to his hair, skin, and eyes. “The spell is quite complex.”

“Do you _frequently_ keep that disguise? Even when you’re alone?” Ome scrunched her eyebrows together, skeptically looking the Wizard up and down.

“Well,” huffed Artorius, “not that it’s any of your business, but _yes_.”

“Why?”

He glanced at the ground for a moment, then raised his head with an answer. “Aside from the fact that _anyone_ could drop by at _any_ time, I’ve spent the majority of my time here wearing this disguise. I spent all my time with the people I loved looking like this. This disguise has become who I am.”

Ome blinked. “I see.”

“Anyway,” he continued, “the other reason we’re heading to Wheel is because I need a few items to get you home. The only way I can send you _back_ is through a Dactyl. And in case you haven’t _heard_ – we just ran out. I believe Mer destroyed the very last one – in _this_ world, anyway, naturally no one can account for how many are left in our human world. But _I’m_ going to have to build one here in Lot. There’s a book in Mer’s library. It has instructions for doing just that. Believe me I’ll need it, because, quite frankly, I have no idea where to start. I’ve never built Datcyls!” Artorius frowned. Then he muttered, “I suspect Mer hasn’t cracked the binding in _that_ book for over a decade.”

“What, does he have it memorized?” asked Ome.

“Not at all,” laughed the Wizard. “Because he doesn’t want to see another Dactyl for as long as he breathes. He’s resolved to never leave this world – not without Nim. And she _refuses_ to leave. So he’s trapped himself here. And he’s probably quite content.” Artorius smirked. “He’s hopeless, you know. He’s probably written that wretched woman countless love letters, begging her forgiveness. Begging her _company_.” He shook his head, half amused – half disgusted.

Ome nodded, trying to sort the facts in her mind. While the romantic-political intrigue was worthy of a daytime soap opera, she couldn’t help but cherish the idea of completely staying out of _that_ dramatic affair.

Meanwhile, Artorius removed some parchment from his pocket and began making a list. “We need to stockpile a few things for myself and for your Dactyl. We’ll try not to draw too much attention, as I’m sure you’ve had enough of that already. You can trust me. I’ve been doing this for years.” He suddenly perked up and began to add to his list. “Oh! I’m _entirely _out of components for my transmutation spell!”

“Trans what?”

Artorius waved his hand dismissively. “It’s something I’m working on. I fancy the idea of changing the core material of things. You know… turning wood into water, dust into gold, fabric into stone, and flesh into – well – into whatever I please! It’s helpful, but my experimentation has depleted most of the ingredients.”

“That’s a long list,” noted Ome. “You’re getting all that in Wheel?”

Artorius laughed. “Oh yes, Mer has everything I need! He was, after all, the one who taught me magic in the first place.”

“So he just _gives_ you this stuff?” asked Ome.

“Of course not, I’m going to steal it!” The Wizard’s striking face sported a devilish grin, handsomely revealing his perfectly straight, human teeth. Ome realized he never quite achieved the full _Yoth_ appearance. The men of this world definitely didn’t have dental work quite as superior as that. No wonder Captain Brush had married him – what were her options, otherwise?

“Wait a minute.” Ome suddenly felt insecure about their plan. “I thought we planned to stay out of trouble.”

“I told you,” Artorius said, “I’ve been doing this for years. You think if I’d ever been caught that I’d be here to tell you about it? I’ve got this down to a science. I can’t exactly _ask_ Mer for supplies.”

“Even after all these years?”

“We haven’t spoken since my exile. I don’t know if he’d be all too happy to see me. And I don’t care to find out. I use a different disguise when I travel to Wheel.” He grinned deviously once again and said, “And I made one for _you_, as well. The last thing you need is for _anyone _in the Wheel district to know who _you_ are.”

Ome peered at the Wizard, trying to mute her curiosity. “A disguise? For me?”

He nodded excitedly. “Yes, I haven’t traveled with anyone in quite some time. I was overjoyed to concoct a new disguise for a new person.”

“Do I _really _have to go _with_ you? This sounds dangerous.”

Amused, Artorius huffed, tossing his arms to the air. “Questions, questions! So many questions!” He shook his head. “You said you wanted to go home, right?”

Ome nodded.

“Well I’m doing you a favor,” he replied smugly. “You’re the one who needs a Dactyl. You’re damn well going with me.”

“So, is that all?” Ome crossed her arms. “I just follow you to get this book and help you carry your stuff, and you send me back?”

“No. You’re forgetting what we discussed the other night.”

“Oh yeah,” said Ome. “That _Sword_.”

Artorius nodded. “It’s going to take a few days to construct the Dactyl. So you’ll be stuck here either way. I’m sorry to put you in this position, but you’re the only leverage I have. For the safety of both Grehm and my wife, the meeting requires a third party. And quite frankly, you’re perfect for just such a job.”

“And if I refuse?” asked Ome.

“Then I won’t build your Dactyl.” There was a moment of silence. The two were unenthusiastic regarding their circumstances but both understood what was at stake.

Ome clutched Wall’s arm. “I want him to come.” The Sleeper looked down at her affectionately, regardless that she didn’t look back. Ome was glaring at Artorius, preoccupied with her usual, debilitating fears. But Wall’s gaze softened as he looked upon the human who tugged at him with urgency.

Artorius, on the other hand, lifted his brows and his eyes widened with disapproval. Shaking his head, he gestured there’d be no chance of negotiation. “No. That’s a terrible idea. Sleepers can’t handle Wheel. There’s fire _everywhere_. Your tall, handsome friend here would take one step past the fortress and ignite. And if he didn’t, he’d surely go mad with dread – the flames are _pervasive_. Every few steps an inferno’s to be found. The Yoth built the city that way – to repel the Sleepers. And I can’t disguise him. That spell only works on humans, as far as I know. And most of all – his presence would assuredly give us away.”

“So, the Wheel district is _that_ bad?” asked Ome.

“Yes. It’s _that_ bad. The entire city is mechanical. Metal, sparks, smoke – fire! It’s nothing like Fore!” Artorius pointed to the cottage, indicating Ome head into that direction. “Come, we’ve wasted enough time. Step inside to make preparations.” He shuffled along the grass, moving toward his home’s entrance. Ome followed close behind, still clutching Wall’s arm. She would definitely feel better if he went with her, but understood that they should heed Artorius’ warning.

Inside, the sunlight shined through the windows from over the tops of the trees. Artorius cleared a space on his table and swung a large satchel onto its surface. The sack appeared mostly empty in spite of a small clinking sound jangling from within.

Ome leaned forward, inspecting it. “What’s the bag for?”

Artorius smirked, loosening the satchel’s drawstring. “I can’t very well steal anything without a place to store it.”

“You’re not taking anything heavy, are you? How long is the walk?” Ome didn’t see any food or water packed in the bag. It appeared to be filled with a few glass containers, but that was about it.

“_Walk_? Oh my, no. Ome – I’m a _Wizard_! We _don’t_ walk. I can clap my hands and get us there in an instant! Well, I’m exaggerating. Rather, we’ll go by traveling potion. One drink and we’ll be at the Wheel district in minutes.” Artorius removed two purple vials from a pouch strapped to his hip and popped their tops, storing the corks in his pocket.

Ome recoiled from their vinegary smell as it wafted from the vials. “Do we have to drink that?”

“Just tiny sips. But first we must set our destinations.” Artorius meandered through the den, approaching a desk near the far corner of the room. He opened a rickety drawer and removed two rolled parchments. “One potion for getting there and one for when we return.”

“And exactly how does a potion know where to send us?” asked Ome.

Artorius rolled his eyes. “Your questions are damn annoying. You have a lot to learn, my dear. Just _trust_ me.” He cleared a spot on the table. As the Wizard unrolled the parchments, Ome realized they were maps. One was clearly labeled “Wheel District” and the other had no label, only a crude sketch of the cottage within which they stood.

Artorius carefully lowered a vial to the map of the Wheel district, placing one drop outside the city walls. The liquid hissed, rising up in steamy clouds as it touched the paper. He replaced the cork, grabbed a quill, and wrote a large number 1 on the stopper. Ome looked at Wall, hoping for some reassurance, but the Sleeper’s face showed little expression. Whatever the practices of Wizards may be, Sleepers had no involvement in such things – and cared not to. Meanwhile, Artorius took the second vial and placed a drop on the sketch of his home. Again, he replaced the cork and labeled the vial with a large number 2.

“There,” he smiled. “That should work out fine.” Then he turned and looked at Ome. “Now – one last thing before we go.” Artorius scrutinized the woman, pursing his lips together. He nodded at Wall, waving him away to allow more room. Reluctantly, the Sleeper wriggled his arm from Ome’s grip and backed off. The Wizard lifted his arms slowly as his fingers curled and stretched in a bizarre pattern. Ome felt her body jolt with a sudden zap of energy. It pulsed through her bones and teeth, stretching her skin and shifting her muscles around in a disconcerting way. The sensation was unlike anything she had experienced before. Her feet grew and her hands widened. Her shoulders, knees, nose – everything moved and expanded, ripping itself from her old form, repositioning the full mass of her core against bones that weren’t her own. And when it was over, she buckled to the ground and puked.

“That’ll happen if you’re unaccustomed to it!” Artorius chuckled, looking her over as she desperately composed herself. “Well,” he said, “Stand up. You’ll be fine.” Ome grimaced and wiped the vomit from her mouth. She moved awkwardly, finding an unfamiliar balance above her own knees. The Wizard smiled. “Perfect,” he said just before glancing at the pungent sickness she left on the floor. “Ehh – I’ll get that up later.” Proudly gesturing to the cottage window, Artorius added, “Have a look!”

Ome approached the sill, unsure if she wanted to see what the Wizard had done. She stared at a reflection in the dark glass. For a moment, it seemed as thought there was another person in the room. There was a strange man in the window. He was Yoth, no doubt, but thin and grizzled – much older than her own father. But there was no one else standing in the den. _It was her._

Ome gasped.Her skin looked like bleached leather. Her hair, though green, receded across the top of her skull. She had long, rugged fingers and hands, and a scrawny, wrinkled neck. Her stomach protruded a little, distending beneath a hard, flat chest that was narrow and muscular, wrapped in pasty, aging skin. She was dressed in traditional, male Yoth attire: hide tunic, thick woven pants, and fur boots. “What have you done to me?!” she cried. Her voice was still female.

“Oh my, that won’t do!” observed Artorius. He apologetically slapped a hand to his forehead. “Forgive me. What an odd thing to hear.” The Wizard snapped his fingers and opened his palm, pantomiming a blown kiss. Ome felt her throat grow hot and stretch as an alien lump appeared below her chin.

“What are you doing? STOP IT!” she yelled. Her voice boomed like a man’s. Startled, Ome raised a tough, knobby hand to her mouth, as if to muffle the sound projecting through her vocal cords.

“Perfect!” said Artorius. “No one will ever know who you are.” He grinned. “_Now_ all you need is a wife.” He repeated the earlier gesture, lifting his arms and curling his fingers. Ome watched as the Wizard turned himself into a young, beautiful girl with long, forest hair and pale skin. Artorius’ female disguise was _much_ thinner than the Yoth women of Fore, but still attractive.

“You get to be _gorgeous_ and I get to be _like this_?” cried Ome. Her words comically erupted with the voice of an older man. The vain sentiment was absolutely incompatible with her absurdly masculine exterior.

“Look,” said Artorius. He spoke with an inflection even lighter and silkier than Ome’s natural voice. “I’m accustomed to this disguise when I visit Wheel. People _know _me there, understand?” He sighed daintily. “Besides, you do _not_ want to get caught. It’s best to do it this way. Otherwise it means our capture – likely our _deaths_.”

Ome turned back toward the window, horrified by her new body. She tilted her balding, egg-shaped head, running a wrinkled, leathery hand over its naked skin. “Why do we look so different from the citizens of Fore? Why are we so pale and thin? Why’s my skin hanging worse than it should?”

Artorius smirked with his deceptively lush, pink lips. “Fore citizens are farmers, fishermen, and herbalists. They work out in the sun, so naturally they’re darker. They work hard on their crops and fisheries, so naturally they’re muscular. And most importantly – _they_ are well fed. The Yoth of Fore are an attractive, healthy people. They have color in their cheeks and it keeps them fit and youthful. As for Wheel citizens – think about it. What would a creature look like if it lived off a minimal food supply? And what would happen to their bodies if they lived behind a wall, using machines to do their work, breathing in smoke every minute of the day?”

Ome turned away from the window, shaking her head, waggling the wrinkles which sagged beneath her jaw bone. “The King can’t feed them? Even with all his magic?”

“He’s powerful,” Artorius agreed. “He could provide one, maybe two meals with the magic he has. But Mer is no god. There are no miracles. That’s why people must depend on each other and work together. Otherwise, they starve.”

“Or in Fore’s case,” said Ome, “they’re hunted.” She glanced at Wall. The Sleeper stared back at her unfamiliar form. Even disguised as a man, she felt exposed before the scope of his deep, black gaze. Wall approached Ome, unfazed by her transformation. He locked his eyes with hers, knowing well enough there was a lovely human beneath it all.

At that moment, Artorius approached the two, eager to get moving. “So – _you_,” he said, pointing at Wall with a slender, kittenish finger, “quit fretting. I’ll protect her. The last thing I want is anything bad to happen. _You_ _stay_ _here_. Wait for us to return. As I said, I suspect it won’t be until late tonight.” The Wizard handed Ome the vial marked with a 1, raising a graceful hand, indicating that she wait a moment before taking a drink. He glanced at Wall and added, “Feel free to hunt any pests in the area. But mind my livestock, and mind that palace horse. I _know_ you can restrain yourself, _demon_.”

Artorius gave Ome a pretty nod. She took a sip and the taste was foul, like cleaning solution mixed with aged fruit juice. She winced as it spread across her tongue. Artorius requested the vial and she eagerly handed it off. He raised it to his supple lips, unaffected by the taste. Ome looked over as the Wizard gulped down the last drop just before flashing a satirically flirtatious wink.

For a moment, nothing happened. The two just stood there. Ome stared at Artorius, trying to ignore the bitter spread of astringency in the back of her throat. Then, a tiny whirlwind formed beneath them, circling their ankles, rising above their knees. It spun around their waists and climbed toward their necks, gradually moving higher until it swooshed the tops of their heads. Artorius’ long, malachite hair flailed prettily as the wind spun. Their bodies disintegrated into a mist against the backdrop of reality, and the two disappeared like ghostly evaporations.


	14. Chapter 14

As the search party approached the tipped carriage by midday, Brush didn’t know what to think. It was completely smashed, smeared across the grass like a large, splintery insect. Frantic, she searched through the debris, calling Whipp’s name. It wasn’t until a soldier caught sight of his body that Brush had to pause a moment to collect her frenzied thoughts. As she looked around the dismal sight, spotting tree branches hanging limply over the path as if they, themselves, were battle worn, the Captain tried to piece together what had happened.

“Beaten to death!” an officer called above the scuffle. The rest of the troops kicked around bits of wood and snapped axels, searching for Tirn and Ome. Brown stripes of dried blood painted the soil in giant, decorative arcs. Once the trolls were discovered, Brush realized most of the blood must have come from them.

“I found Tirn!” shouted Weden. “Someone help me get him up!” Three Corporals rushed to their Lieutenant’s side, grappling with Tirn’s arms and legs. Brush glanced across the mess, observing Weden and the others. “Thrown against a tree!” he called. “Hard enough to break his neck.”

“What about the human?” asked Brush. Heavy lines formed across her forehead beneath the thick veil of her emerald bangs. “Anyone?” she cried, “_Any_ sign of the human?”

Heads shook. A few muttered, “No, Captain…” and “Nothing here…” They scanned the wreck for a hint of fair skin and black hair, but somehow Brush _knew_ Ome wouldn’t turn up. As she dared to entertain the question _why_, two scouts returned from searching the woods south of the trail. By the looks on their faces, Brush knew that whatever they found, it wasn’t good news.

“The rangers,” reported the first scout, “Papry and Gurt were left dead in the creek. Fox and Shade weren’t far from there, either. Sleeper attacks. Both of them. Torn apart, just – _apart_.”

Brush jutted out the bottom of her jaw, looking down, then looking up, stretching the tense anguish from the musculature of her neck. “Any sign of Tax or Spindrift?”

“No,” replied the second scout.

The Captain wanted to hang her head, embarrassed by the tragedy that took eight of her men, as well as Whipp. Regardless, she held her head high, showing no sign of weakness to her troops. These soldiers were aware of the risks when venturing beyond city walls. No one could blame her for what happened. Even so, deep down she felt responsible for the deaths of those men – and for what? To keep an eye on an outsider. Brush dismissed the scouts, ordering them to search north of the trail for any sign of the missing rangers.

Turning her attention to the furry, massive bodies sprawled across the dirt, she called, “See this, Weden?” The Captain kicked at a bone poking from the torn chest cavity of a troll. “No heart. Ripped _right_ out.”

Weden squinted in the sun, sweaty from lifting heavy scraps of wood. Heaving and huffing, he dropped a plank and walked over to Brush. She stood by the troll, agonizing over the nature of its death. “I see it,” he said with a frown. “Looks all too familiar.”

“It smells,” noted the Captain. She lifted an armored hand to her nose.

Weden nodded. “We should probably keep moving. Obviously trolls are the least of our worries.”

“Something’s not right,” said Brush, her voice muffled behind her gauntlet. She turned back to the soldiers and shouted, “Anyone find the human yet? _Anyone_?”

Again, heads shook. “No Captain...”

Dropping her hand, Brush sighed angrily. “She’s not here.”

“No,” agreed Weden. “She’s not.”

The Captain puffed out her lips, spitting away a sweaty strand of hair that had arbitrarily stuck to her mouth. “She’s with a Sleeper.”

“What?”

Brush rubbed her head, heavy with perspiration, and wiped the salty residue back against her hairline. “I spoke with her about a Sleeper. Wasn’t long ago. The night before she left.”

Confused, Weden crossed his arms, glaring at his Captain. “What are you talking about?”

The sun burned at Brush’s scalp. Sweat trickled across her head, making her skin itch beneath a sticky film. Scratching the back of her neck, she replied, “Ome was nearly killed by a Sleeper a few days ago. It attacked at night – in her quarters. She didn’t _tell_ anyone. She managed to fight it off.”

“She fought one _off_?” Weden asked, then repeated, “She fought one off…” arrested by disbelief.

Brush nodded, her eyes were barely open as her face glistened with sweat. The sun above beat down ferociously.

“Think it was the same Sleeper that killed these trolls?” asked Weden.

“Think so. And I think it took her.” Brush turned away from the carcass, lifting a hand to her eyes, shielding them from the insufferable glare of sunshine. Squinting, she monitored the three soldiers still grappling with Tirn’s body, moving his corpse to the carriage. “That’s why Whipp stopped,” she said, pointing at the men. “That’s why they were attacked by trolls. Whipp wouldn’t have stopped for any other reason. Not in this territory. Trolls are slow. They can’t catch a horse, much less a carriage. I bet Tirn spotted the damn Sleeper. They stopped, but those trolls were unanticipated.”

“Well,” said Weden, “if that’s the case, then I’m puzzled. The demon didn’t lay a hand on either Whipp or Tirn. That’s rather uncharacteristic of a Sleeper.”

“And there’s no sign of Ome,” added Brush. “This Sleeper may have hunted with the others – the ones that attacked our rangers.”

“Pff!” Weden puffed his lips, grimaced, then nodded. “So, Sleepers ambushed the rangers, trolls killed Whipp and Tirn, and a _particular_ Sleeper broke off from his pack and _killed_ those trolls? And the woman was – what? Kidnapped?”

“Maybe,” said Brush. “Or she went willingly.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Like I said, she didn’t tell anyone about the Sleeper she fought off. Not right away. I had to force it out of her. She kept the damn thing a secret. It seemed like she was – I don’t know – _protecting_ it.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why protect it? You said it tried to kill her. Maybe she didn’t know what to do. She’s a stranger here, after all.”

“True.”

“Plus, you’re forgetting the obvious,” said Weden, pointing a finger at his Captain.

“And that is?” asked Brush.

“The woman might have escaped. You know – _on her own_.”

Brush snorted. “Doubtful. That human couldn’t blink an eye just to save her own ass. I’ve never met someone so frantic. Besides, how could she have escaped _that_ fast?”

“The missing horse.” Weden shrugged, then pointed across the hill. “There are hoof prints up ahead. They trail off that way.”

“Maybe,” said Brush. There was doubt in her voice.

“It’d only make _sense_,” he argued. “There’s no possible way to travel with a Sleeper – not without getting your face ripped off.”

The Captain clenched her teeth. “_She_ isn’t like us! Maybe it _is_ possible for _her_!”

“I don’t know.” Weden tossed his arms into the warm, sunny air. Sunlight glinted off the shapely pauldrons wrapped around his upper torso. “What reason do you have to believe she’s in league with a Sleeper? She’s _lost_. Didn’t even know what a Sleeper was until she came _here_. That was only a few _days_ ago. Too short a time to form a motive.”

“We can’t be so certain about _when _she formed a motive.” Brush pressed her lips together and exhaled through her nose. “And believe me Lieutenant – I trust her less and less.”

Weden nodded. “Well, there’s only one way to find out. Follow the horse. It’s the only lead we’ve got. We shouldn’t make assumptions when there’s _clear_ evidence to follow.”

Brush stared off into the direction of Ginger’s tracks. She both loved and hated when Weden was right. She hated it because he proved to be more level-headed than her in times of crisis. She loved it because he proved to be one of her finest.

“Do it,” she commanded. “Round everyone up. Track the animal.”

As Weden began to walk away, Brush grabbed him by the arm. Startled, he looked back. She said, “Prepare the recruits for Sleepers along the way. I want torches armed and netting unraveled. If that thing isn’t _chasing_ Ome, then it travels withher as I’ve suspected. If that’s the case, then we apprehend _both_ of them. We’ll trap and kill the damn thing if we have to.”

Weden nodded, then continued on his way.

“And Weden…” added Brush.

He stopped.

“From what I’ve seen here – it’s male. Bigger than the female that killed Mul. I’m only going to stress this once – make sure the soldiers are _fully_ prepared.”

* * *

The stones beneath Ome’s fur boots were covered in black soot. It appeared to be everywhere, washed across the surface of walkways, pillars, and walls. As she walked, Artorius strolled ahead, pointing the way with a delicate, feminine arm. She followed him, lumbering along uncomfortably in her temporary body, but strangely content knowing the people around her couldn’t see who she really was. _There’s one thing I never tried back home_, she thought,_ disguising myself in public._

On each street corner sat wide cauldrons pulsating with tall flames. Each blaze shot straight into the sky, taller than most buildings. The timing for each had been syncopated with fires oxidizing at different intervals, coupled with hot air exuding in between.

“What _are_ those?” asked Ome. She could feel their heat radiate across the naked skin of her balding head.

“Hearth-guards,” replied Artorius. “I _told_ you. They keep out the Sleepers. Those flames reach higher than the fortress walls. That way Sleepers can see it and they _know_ to stay away.”

As she watched the Hearth-guards, Ome secretly admitted that having Wall join the excursion _would_ have been a terrible idea. Who would have thought? Artorius knew what he was doing after all. As they walked, she noticed every building, archway, railing, path, and barricade was made from stone and metal. No plants. No wood. Just _stone and metal_. The buildings were made substantially of steel and iron, but trace amounts of weaker metals lined various parts of each. Some towered over the streets like bronze factories, pumping clouds of black smoke into the air. Adjacent buildings were smaller, lined with transparent glass walls. Their insides looked like the guts of a Swiss clock – gears and wheels wrapped around one another, slowly spinning like rhythmic patchwork. Though confusing to the eye, the systems were functional, efficient, and deliberate. The gears twisted around one another as sparks flew from various directions, revealing their likeness to a robotic circulatory system powered by the pulse of a strange current.

Meanwhile, Yoth walked the streets looking much like Ome and Artorius – thin, pale, and worn. They spoke to one another, but the murmur of their voices could barely be heard. In fact, Ome realized she couldn’t hear the sound of _anything_ over the incessant clanging of metal, the cyclical burst of flames, and the continuous grind of machinery. That was until _something_ loudly whizzed by. She staggered out of the way and gasped. It looked like a vehicle but hovered above the ground. “What the hell?!” she exclaimed.

Artorius shushed Ome, holding up his petite hands, reminding her not to draw attention. “It’s called a Sail. Just a simple method of transport – like cars back in the old world. Wheel isn’t as small as Fore. It’s actually pretty _big_. They use Sails to get around.”

“They _float_?”

“Yes,” said Artorius. “A technology Mer managed to invent, without the use of pressurized air. Don’t ask me how he did it.”

Ome followed the Wizard as he gingerly stepped away from the main road, ducking through an alley lined with crates, trash, and broken household items. Everything back there was also covered in that same black soot. “This place is disgusting,” she grumbled.

Artorius smiled. “You’re beginning to sound like the old man you appear to be.”

Ome furrowed her thick, bushy eyebrows.

“You’ll get used to it,” he added. “And we won’t be here long, anyway.”

The two continued on until Artorius rounded a bend and slunk between two buildings, entering into a square near a crowd as it gathered on a street corner. There must have been two hundred people standing idly by, raising their fists in the air every so often, as though in response to a main speaker.

“What’s this?” asked Ome.

“I have no idea,” replied Artorius. “Best we stay cautious.”

As they neared the commotion, two Yoth shared the attention from the crowd. On the ground, a large canvas bag, covered in stains, slumped near their feet. Like the other citizens that stood around, the two speakers looked nothing like Yoth from the Fore district. The first was very lean and scarred, her face covered in deep, wide cuts and purple-black bruises. The second – a man – was also quite thin, but very short. He had sunken eyes, surrounded by dark circles, bearing a look of fatigue which seemed almost agonizing. They both wore murky, soiled clothes which might have once been brighter in color, but now were so stained with filth and grease that they appeared to serve better as dirty rags than legitimate attire.

The crowd all around talked and bustled loudly, riddled with tormented facial expressions and crossed arms. Not wanting to draw attention, the man and woman attempted to quiet everyone down. The female placed two fingers to her mouth, emitting a high pitched whistle, startling their audience briefly enough to get them settled. “Hush up!” she demanded. Her scarred face twisted in on itself as she spoke. “Else the officers will arrive. You’ll get us in trouble – all of you!”

A stranger shouted from the back, “How many were there?” The crowd murmured at his question.

The short, tired man raised his hands, reminding everyone to stay calm. “Violet and I only saw the one,” he replied. “But there may be more!”

“Let’s see it!” demanded another voice. The demand was met with further calls of approval.

“Rum already told you – this is a matter for the _guards_!” yelled Violet, gesturing to the short man beside her.

Rum gave her a nod and added, “And it’s a matter for the _King_, himself! He’ll tell us what to do!”

“Step aside!” hollered another voice, this time a Wheel Sentry, followed by two patrol officers roughly encouraging the crowd to disperse. The Sentry marched up to Rum and Violet, demanding an explanation for the commotion.

“We caught a Sleeper!” Violet boasted. “Dragged it up from the mine.”

Latecomers gasped at her words, including Artorius who now began to understand the sudden interest in the public display. Whispers rose in volume, turning into loud murmurs which drowned out the imposing questions of the Wheel Sentry. Rum turned again to the crowd, shouting over their words, begging silence. Voices crawled to a hush.

“How did a Sleeper get into the mine?” the Sentry repeated himself, no longer outmanned by frantic exclamations.

“That’s what we want to know!” demanded Violet. “We must see the King! He has to know about this!” Shouts erupted once again.

The men on patrol stepped forward to examine the stained bag. “Is this it?” asked an officer.

“Yes,” replied Rum. “Our team was down in the mine, stringing lights, when we heard the thing moving in the darkness. We couldn’t light any fires down there, but we pummeled the creature with stones until it backed into a corner. Damn thing couldn’t fly down there.” Rum chuckled as he mimicked throwing rocks, swinging his fists through the air.

“There must be another opening to the mine,” Violet insisted. “A cave or something that opens up into the Clip Woods. And that means they could climb up into our city at any time!” Horrified gasps whisked across the crowd as jaws dropped and hands abruptly covered mouths.

The Sentry turned to his officers. “Report to the foreman. Post gunmen at every corner of the excavation site. I’ll bet there’s a vein running up from the mine – right into the creek area.”

“Please, we must see the King,” Violet begged.

“No one sees the King, especially not for this,” the Sentry affirmed dismissively.

Violet grabbed the Sentry by his arm and pleaded, “We can’t shut down the mine, please! My family’s rations are short enough as they are!”

The crowd moved against one another, volumes rising as bodies grew unruly. People shouted, turning to one another as they lamented the idiocy of shutting down a mine – destroying yet another avenue of employment.

Deciding this was no longer a safe place to be, Artorius pulled Ome away from the mob. In spite of their physical appearances, his strength outmatched hers. “Best not to get involved,” he advised. “Politics here are… _hazardous_.”

But Ome wrenched from his grip as curiosity drew her back to the center of the commotion. She paused a moment, shocked by her sudden desire to be trapped in a crowd – and a boisterous one at that. Regardless, she moved forward. As she did so, an officer unwrapped the canvas bag, revealing the lifeless body of a Sleeper, bloodied with scrapes and broken bones.

The crowd trumpeted sharply at the sight of the demon. Ome gave a cry too, not at the joy of seeing the creature dead, but at the sad horror of how it reminded her of Wall. Looking over its injuries, her heart dropped, imagining a lifeless Wall stuffed inside that very bag. And all at once, she fully realized the risks involved should he ever be discovered by any Yoth – no matter to which district their loyalties pointed.

She stared into the corpse’s eyes, wondering if every Sleeper was as intuitive as Wall. Was he special, or did all of them have the capacity to bond with others? Staring, and lost in a tug of war between dread and curiosity, Ome hadn’t noticed the hand of a third patrol officer grabbing her shoulder. She whirled around, wrinkling her brow with bewilderment.

“I said _excuse me, sir_,” the officer repeated.

_Sir_? For a moment she’d forgotten her disguise. Then all at once, Ome understood the officer’s words. “Uh, yes?” she said. “Can I help you?”

“We need to get through to the carcass.” The officer pointed to the body of the Sleeper.

“Oh – sorry. Go ahead.” Ome stepped out of the way. Moving from their path, she made her way back to Artorius as the rest of the crowd dispersed. Two officers carried the dead body toward the castle, followed by the Sentry. As for the two miners, Rum and Violet, they tagged along, insisting they see the King. By the looks on the officers’ faces, their demands seemed futile.

“There _is_ an entrance to the outside through that mine,” Artorius whispered as they continued on their way.

“How do you know?” Ome asked.

“Because I made it,” he laughed. “I used it long ago as an entrance into the city. That was, of course, before I perfected my travel potion. The tunnel starts in the mines, leads to a small cave, and then intersects with a drainage pipe under Wheel’s industrial sector. I suppose that Sleeper got a little too adventurous and decided to go exploring.”

“This all makes you a bit creepy, you know that?”

“What? Sneaking in and out of the city?” Artorius shrugged. “I’m not welcome here. How else would I get in?”

“No, not _just_ that,” Ome argued. “Making your own secret passages. Disguising as a woman to steal things. Disguising as a Yoth to your own wife. That’s all kinds of fucked up.”

“If they only knew.” Artorius batted his beautiful eyes and laughed.

Ome walked beside him, sauntering along in silence, still pondering the idea of the Wizard’s secrecy toward his own _spouse_. “Do you ever, you know, sneak into Fore?” she asked.

“No. I can’t. I mean, I _won’t_. It would…” Artorius’ frolicsome smile faded to an apprehensive frown. “It would be difficult not to–”

“–Not to spy on Brush, right?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “And then I really _would_ be creepy.” He smirked.

“So what happened between you two? How did things turn out so badly?”

“As you know, another man – Spring the rotten bastard – came between us.” Artorius sighed. “But I also did some very _irrational_ things.”

“Like what?”

“Well to put it bluntly, I, eh, almost destroyed the kingdom.”

“Let me guess – with that _Sword_?”

Artorius nodded, then perked at the conversation. “Around Fore, I’ve been upgraded from menace to terrorist.”

“So, which is it?” asked Ome, knowing he’d only give a vague answer. And if it wasn’t vague, then she assumed it’d be sarcastic.

“You must remember that things work differently for _us_. Humans. Powerful things are drawn to us and vice versa. In your case, it was Wall. In my case – it was Grehm.”

“And you said this is the Sword that has something to do with a _Pen_?” Ome hoped the Wizard would elaborate on Pen but as predicted – he skirted the issue.

Artorius nodded. “And I promised never to do anything like that again.” He pressed his lips together, looking down at the ground as they walked. “I wasn’t in my right mind. I never meant to hurt anyone, but I _did_. So now the only way I can survive is by _creeping_ around like the _creep_ you so think I am.”

Ome’s tone went flat. “That’s your plan, then?” Her wrinkled eyes looked the Wizard up and down, unimpressed.

“Excuse me? Plan for what?”

She shook her head. “For the rest of your life. You’re just going to keep sneaking around, stealing things to make potions? _Really_?”

Artorius’ face wrinkled up as his inflection grew firm and defensive. “I don’t have a choice!”

“Yeah you do,” Ome replied. “This is all so stupid. You’re not happy. You’re just _used_ to this.”

“Ome, I’m a criminal. Soldiers in both districts have permission to kill me on sight.”

“So you’re just gonna keep sneaking around until you grow old? You technically still have a wife. And what about Mer? In spite of the law, do you really know that he _doesn’t_ want to see you?” Ome cleared her throat, the sound of her masculine voice rumbled up through her chest. “I mean, have you ever even tried? There’s no way you two could come to terms?”

“I don’t think either Brush or Mer would see me. I am a – eh – _toxic_ person.”

“Well, then, have fun sneaking around,” she muttered. Then Ome decided to change the subject. “Did that Sleeper blow one of our escape routes?”

“No,” replied Artorius, “I have several other passages and I rarely use them anymore. My disguises are very convincing. They’ll probably seal off the drainage pipe, because they can’t put a Hearth-guard in the mine. Too many flammable materials down there.”

Ome nodded and scratched her hairy face. They trotted silently uphill, through a residential area. Then Artorius pointed and announced, “We’re almost there. Ink lives just ahead.” Shuffling along, he stopped at a stairway with three steps leading down to a door. Artorius peeked over the steps, inspecting the entrance. “This is it.”

“Where are we?”

“The home of Ink,” he replied. “He’s a palace guard with rather high security clearance. Old guy. Makes his own rules. Can get me into almost _any_ section of the palace.”

“In exchange for _what_?” Ome tilted her bald head inquisitively, scanning over Artorius’ female disguise.

The Wizard laughed, though it came out like a soft giggle. “No nothing like that. I’m not _that_ desperate. Though, if Ink had his way...” Artorius rolled his bright, green eyes behind long, pretty lashes. “No, no. I give him _food_. With a little bit of magic, I provide Ink with a stocked pantry. In exchange he grants me access to the alchemy lab.”

Artorius motioned for Ome to follow him to the door. She obliged and moved down to the second step as he stood in front of her with a raised fist, ready to knock. Then he paused and looked back at her. “Oh, and uh, before I knock – _my_ name is Miz and _your_ name is...?”

“Ben,” replied Ome.

Artorius gave her a curious look.

“It was my dad’s name.”

“Ok,” he nodded. “Ben it is. Unless we bump into a fellow named Twigg. In that case my name is Carla and you’re my brother, Jut. Ok? Now if Ink says anything about vapor emitters, you just say you don’t know. He’s going to ask you.”

“_Someone’s_ an experienced liar.” Rolling her eyes, Ome sighed.

Artorius turned back to the door, lifted his fist, and rapped politely. He called out, “Hello? Ink? It’s me – _Miz_!”

The door clicked and rattled with the sound of opening locks. As the hinge creaked away from the threshold, a tall man, about the same age as Ome’s disguise, appeared. She noticed he wore very strange body armor, appearing much different from the Fore armor. Ink’s attire was made from a dark metal that wrapped tightly to his body. At each elbow and knee joint, a geared servomechanism whirred as he moved.

“Miz!” shouted Ink. “So wonderful that you stopped by. I was just on my out. I’m on duty this morning. I must say, your timing is impeccable.”

“May we come in?” asked Artorius.

Ink nodded. Then he glanced at Ome, scanning her masculine physique up and down. “Who’s this?”

“Ben,” replied Artorius. “This is Ben, my husband.”

“_Husband_?” said Ink. “I must say, I’m _insulted_! You married this old troll and never considered _me_?”

“Excuse me,” said Ome, trying her best to be as _manly_ as possible. She extended a burly hand to Ink. He took it and gave it a rough shake.

Artorius laughed, giggling just as he did before. “May we come in?” he repeated.

“Fine, fine. Come _in_,” replied Ink. “But not for long. As I said – was just on my way out.”

They walked inside. There wasn’t much to see. Ink lived a simple life, it seemed. He had a small kitchen and a room with a bed. Seemed there was little else to do in Wheel but work, eat, and sleep. And the eating didn’t happen all too often.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. “Are you back now to show off your new spouse? Huh? Trying to break an old man’s heart, eh?” He laughed a deep, rolling chuckle.

“Oh dear, no,” said Artorius. “He came with me because, well, he and I _both_ need something from the palace. If you’re willing to help, I can assist you with your _food_ situation.”

“Where is it you live again?” asked Ink, ignoring Artorius’ request.

“Oh,” said Artorius, “just outside the fortress – in the woods. Don’t you remember? I practice crafting _away_ from the city. I prefer peace and quiet for study.”

“I hear that,” grumbled Ink. Then he shot an ugly look at Ome. “Your husband don’t talk much, eh?”

Ome half smiled, nervously. She didn’t talk much regardless of who she looked like. So, she tried to put on a macho demeanor and replied, “I don’t talk unless it’s _important_.” Impressed by the gruff firmness of her new voice, Ome relished the sudden feeling of empowerment.

Dropping the ugly glare, a smile spread across Ink’s face. “I like him, Miz. You might have a keeper.”

“Yes,” replied Artorius, shooting a questionable glance at Ome.

Ignoring the Wizard, she didn’t break character, but instead stared right back at Ink, pretending to be unafraid of the old, disaffected soldier.

“So,” continued Artorius. “Do we have a deal – as usual?”

Ink lifted a hand, gesturing to his kitchen. “Have at it, lady. I’ll take you where you need to go. What is it your _husband _needs?”

Artorius slipped past Ink, tiptoeing into the kitchen with his graceful hands raised above his pretty, little head. “He needs to go to the King’s library.”

Ink’s eyes bugged from their sockets. “The King’s _library_? No one goes into the King’s library!”

Artorius smiled and said, “I’ve been allowed in there a number of times. Don’t play these silly games with me, Ink. Do you want more food in your cupboards or don’t you?”

Ink sighed, waving his hand for Artorius to continue. “Fine, fine. I’ll take you both where you need to go.”

Artorius gestured with his hands much like he did back in the cottage before dinner. Suddenly, Ink’s cabinets and shelves overflowed with vegetables, fruit, grains, nuts, and herbs.

The old Wheel soldier smiled fondly as his kitchen filled with food that other citizens could only dream of. “Yep,” he said, eyeballing his spoils. “I’ll take you _wherever_ you need to go. Only for you, my lovely, little witch. Only for you.”

* * *

The inside of Ink’s Sail reminded Ome of the interior of a new car. His seats were lined with soft, black hide, buffed to shine. She allowed Artorius to sit up front with Ink, as she felt somewhat uncomfortable around the man. Ink clearly had misguided feelings for “Miz” and felt that “Ben” was a threat to his intentions. Though in retrospect, Ome couldn’t blame the old man – it was obvious he led a lonely life. Artorius was clever in selecting Ink to do his bidding. Masking himself in the form of a young maiden with access to food – who could say no?

More so, it was terribly convenient for Artorius that a palace guard with the highest of security clearance _wouldn’t_ be a young soldier. Those younger ones were much too bright-eyed. Too eager. They were less interested in the simpler pleasures of life, but rather fully absorbed in gaining rank. Aging soldiers were ripe for corruption. Ink was jaded enough to no longer care for the district. It was clear he hadn’t many years left and felt it necessary to satisfy his _own_ needs. So when a pretty, young thing offered her company, he took care not to scare her off. For the graying soldiers of Wheel it was loneliness – not starvation – that proved the inconvenience of old age.

Once everyone had safely climbed into the Sail, Ink pressed a button, securing the doors and windows. Then, he unlocked a small, practical wheel from the front dash, securing it into place, and flipped a switch in the center of its diameter. The vehicle hummed softly as it lifted from the ground. Ome looked through the window, watching soot blow out from the Sail’s underbelly, wildly spreading across the street’s stony surface, clearing a path for the contraption above. Ink reached for a lever and pushed it forward, propelling the Sail into acceleration. It glided across the roadway, moving faster than any carriage. Neighboring Sails zipped around like worker bees, passing across their field of vision, though yielding when appropriate.

“Next stop, the castle,” announced Ink. “And Miz, I have to thank you.”

Artorius smiled. “For what?”

Ink shook his head, keeping his eyes on the air-path. “The extra food is appreciated. I don’t know what inspired you to pick _me_, but I’m grateful.” He paused, pressing his lips together contemplatively. “Maybe I’m just an old, stupid man – letting you in and out of the palace. In and out of the King’s lab – thieving from royalty. But what has all _this_ done for me? Twenty-five years, Miz, and _what_ has it done?”

“Well,” said Artorius, “I live outside the palace. You’re safe here, aren’t you? No Sleepers attack Wheel residents!”

“Ha!” laughed Ink. “_Safe_. Am I so _safe_ living off measly rations of food? Sometimes I’d rather have the Sleepers.”

“Ah but you wouldn’t have this beautiful machine we’re riding around in,” noted Artorius.

“_This_ thing?” asked Ink. He snorted with disgust. “Let me tell you something about these Sails, my dear. They _eat better_ than us. And we’re choking on their waste. All this filth we live in is a byproduct of _their_ Feed. And what’s worse! The ground around us is all dug up and dead, because we’ve been cherrypicking those black stones beneath, refining them for our fancy trinkets. Spent the last decade pumping this garbage into our Sails, our weapons, our buildings – you name it!” Ink sniffed, still watching the air-path ahead.

“Feed?” asked Ome.

“That’s what they call the fuel around here,” answered Artorius, leaning back to look at her. Then he sat forward and asked, “Right, Ink?”

The old soldier nodded. “That’s right. You people really don’t get out of the woods much, eh? How could you not know that? Ever since Mer discovered Avolite – those black rocks under the dirt – he manufactured them into Feed. We’ve been swimming in their junk ever since. Breathing in black dust day by day, watching it blow across our streets and homes. It’s just insulting. One reason I never had children. Why bother raising them in a place like _this_?”

“Is that what the factories produce?” asked Ome.

“What? _Children_? Sorry old man, but we make those the old fashioned way!” Ink burst into a loud, rumbling laugh.

“No,” replied Ome. She rolled her wrinkled eyes. “Feed. Do the factories produce _Feed_?”

“I know, I know. Just having a little fun,” said Ink. “And yes, most of the time they make Feed. They make Sails which use Feed, and they make the King’s war machines, which _also_ use Feed.”

“War machines?” asked Ome.

“Tanks,” replied Artorius. “If you ever hear rumbling, that’d be the tanks.”

“Yes,” added Ink. “The _rumbling_ is a problem. _Quakes_, we call them. What it is – the machines combust and sometimes an entire factory will go up in flames. However, Mer’s right-hand man, Spring, also takes troops out to the woods to do practice runs. Combustion happens _there_ too.”

“_Practice_ runs? Attack drills, of _course_,” mumbled Artorius.

“The machines aren’t flawless,” continued Ink, “and often they explode, igniting the trees around them during those drills. It’s a damn shame, it is.”

“Yes it is,” Artorius agreed sourly.

So there you have it. I live in a world where the machines are well-fed, the people are starving, and our unholy King won’t do what’s necessary to fix it.”

“Well I’ve heard about a peace treaty in the works,” said Ome.

Ink snorted again. “Yeah I heard something like that. It wouldn’t be a bad idea, but they’ve been talking about it for years. Don’t know why anything like _that_ would take off now.”

Artorius glanced back at Ome and the two looked one another in the eyes, briefly, albeit earnestly. The Sail came to a slow as Ink maneuvered around a corner, emerging into an open path that led across a vast terrain, towered by a tall, iron castle. Dark and foreboding, the palace was much larger than Nim’s. Triangular flags tipped the spires and towers, flapping madly in the wind. Ome noticed a shape on the flags that looked like a circle filled with smaller circles. There were strange symbols inside each circle, but she couldn’t decipher what they meant, much less _see_ what they were. On the outside of the castle there was a great stairway, preceded by one, very large Hearth-guard. It spat rotund flames into the clouds, reaching higher than the palace towers.

“We’re here,” announced Ink, moving closer to the haunting structure. “Once inside, we’ll drop Ben off at the King’s library, then I’ll escort _you_, my dear lady, to the King’s lab.” He glanced at Artorius and smiled.

The Wizard feigned a giggle and reached back to Ome, handing her a slip of paper.

“That’s for you, my husband,” he said. “It explains what you need to do.”

Ome slid the note into her pocket, dissatisfied with the reality of her endeavor.


	15. Chapter 15

Ginger nickered in the distance, waiting patiently for more oats. She lingered as naively as any good horse, waiting for Whipp to return her to her stable. Wall briefly studied the animal, imagining how easily he could bring her to the ground and eat the muscle that clung to those old bones. The Sleeper’s delight remained stifled in his head, disallowed to pass through a pair of otherwise useless lips. How he could have torn that horse apart, but no. Ome wouldn’t have stood for it. She made that clear. Sure, the Wizard gave fair warning, but Wall cared little for what Artorius had to say. Wall only wished to please Ome. So he abandoned Ginger, allowing the stupid creature to graze patiently by the cottage, unharmed.

Wall hungered for flesh. Anything would do. And so he slunk away, moving between the trees. He shoved broad, green leaves from his view, letting them bounce back behind him, leaving a trail of quivering vegetation. Walking like a prince, he meandered through peasant trails. The smallest of animals bounced away from his every step, recoiling from the prevailing company of something _dark and powerful _that marched across their habitats. The birds in the trees chirruped and twittered like boisterous children, enjoying their chattiness on a sunny day. But as the Sleeper walked by, they fell silent. Some fluttered off, while others shuddered and froze, gripping their claws to the branches. They huddled together, nuzzling their beaks into the breast of a friend, averting their notice from the evil that traipsed below. Other fowl darted away with an abrupt screech, forewarning the rest that wickedness crept beneath. None of it came as a surprise to Wall. He knew Sleepers petrified all walks of life; the blackness of their eyes appropriately highlighted the mercilessness from deep within.

Yet Wall journeyed on, ignoring life, feeling as though he stood apart from the forest. But that was not all. As he continued, thinking beyond the greedy petitions of his stomach, he realized that he also stood apart from his _own_ kind. Where there once was simply depravity inside him, he had discovered compassion. That was the day he discovered the human. Fondness, attraction, even enthusiasm – Wall had begun to change. The camaraderie between him and the other Sleepers was replaced with something broken. Were they no longer his allies? Were they _ever_? As he questioned his own entirety, Wall began to doubt his kin. Sleepers were born and Sleepers died. Everything in between was a lonely hunt. No parentage, no ancestry, no relations between siblings. _No friends_. The Sleepers had but one thing in common: instinct.

It was strange how he came to name himself. No one had ever given Wall a name. He hadn’t thought about it until Ome asked. But wasn’t it amusing? The moment those words slipped past her lips: _“So, who… are you? What’s your name?”_ It was in _that_ moment Wall knew the name to give her. He just… _knew_.

The woods grew silent with fear, all-encompassing the Sleeper as he moved like a winged tiger through the rich terrain. And in that silence, Wall entertained his thoughts. He dwelled on them, ignoring the hunger in his gut and the blood-thirst in his throat. Wall remembered his place of origin, even the day he was born. That was the day his eyes opened to a great crack above, revealing a blue sky, ripe for flying – for hunting.

No memories prefaced that moment. Wall was simply born of the ground. Fostered from the depths, he was prepared for emergence once triggered by the great crack. On that day, the world called to him like a bird serenading a snake. He explored its fear and hatred, tasting the animosity of Lot’s burning, dark desires. Suicidal and daft, the world whistled cravingly, calling the Sleepers to answer its destructive appeals. And so, Wall and the others surfaced.

But now, as he wandered through the plants, Wall mutely questioned the instincts that waned within. As he did so, he moved deeper yet into the foliage. His ears detected sound again, but it did not echo from the animals. He heard _singing_. It was strangely soft and delicate. Not loud – but definite. Had he been any other Sleeper that day, he would have ignored it. But Wall, more curious in his recent awakening, followed the singing down a path, leading to a distant, blue light.

The voice was neither male nor female, but he felt that he knew it, as though it sung only to him. It expected his arrival. Closer and closer he moved toward the blue speck. It grew. Expanding and flattening, it rippled with movement, no longer a two dimensional icon hanging in the distance. The speck became organic and tangible, something lifelike that thrived in the woods.

_A lake._

The singing, once soft and delicate, now blared with the swell of articulate fanfare. And it sung to _him,_ a Sleeper, the dark thing strutting like a prince between the quiet trees.

_You hunger, malignant one_

_You search for flesh_

_You hunger for heartbeats_

_Pulses fresh_

_Come closer, tall creature_

_Come to my wake_

_Look into my current_

_Know what to take_

Wall obeyed the voice as it guided him like a drum. He followed the beat of its song closer to the shore. He leaned forward and looked into the water, his starless eyes fixed upon the ebb and flow, hypnotized by a mesmeric buoyancy that drugged his very will. The waters subsided, then curved, bouncing with fervor, generating a yellow light beneath the waves. The light formed across a stream of exhilarated tides, shining at Wall with an intensity that demanded his focus. The illumination filled his dark eyes, replacing blackness with light. And so, Wall fell to his knees unable to blink. The light penetrated his vision, tearing through his sockets like a wild beast, diving straight to his core, inside a womb of shadows. A place deep inside Wall, abandoned to soullessness, grew swollen with a powerful, mysterious light. And the singing continued, madly but imperious…

_The Queen has been broken_

_And so ruined is her toy_

_Now bitter with woe_

_Was once sweetened with joy_

The lake showed him an image, focused and clear. It was an amulet, the color of white, resting on the nightstand beside the bed of the Queen. The voices bounced around Wall, echoing from the lake, yelling, “Take it!” and “Give it to the human!” layering upon one another in a bewildering chorus.

In an instant, Wall saw a flash, revealing Ome’s face, and then the light died away, sinking down beneath the surf. The yellow glow disappeared from his vision. The Sleeper’s eyes turned black again, abandoning a void drained of its energy, replaced by the familiar hue of Wall’s demonic sense of sight. And yet he awakened, once again, with purpose. He had to find the amulet, and gift the very thing to Ome. But Wall’s hushed question as to _why_ entertained no answer, for the voices did not explain the logic of their message. What remained was simply that he must blindly obey the lake’s imposition. And Wall knew all too well the curse of blind instinct.

* * *

_Ome,_

_The book you seek is blue, covered in gold trim. It’s not very big – but thin. The library is vast, but assumedly navigable._

_The title reads: _ _ Faces of Passage _ _._

_When you are finished, meet me out front on the steps by the large Hearth-guard. Do hurry. Loitering isn’t ideal when carrying stolen goods._

_Artorius._

Ome furrowed her brow as she crumpled the paper, stuffing it into her breast-pocket. Minutes passed since Ink dropped her off at the library. Artorius wasn’t kidding. Mer’s library _was_ vast. Though “vast” was too liberal a word to describe it. Disorganized, perhaps. Cluttered. Mind-bogglingly _disastrous_. She scanned across an endless heap of books, scrolls, lexicons, and manuals. Some were gracelessly stacked, while others had _literally_ fallen to their fate, resulting in a disorderly pile on the floor. Many publications were loaded high on a center table, teetering gingerly near the edge. The guts between each text were stuffed with books that lost their binding, leaving behind an amassment of disassembled pages. The clutter didn’t end there. The pages were fanned carelessly across the table, some pinned beneath straggled compendiums, while others flopped in unshapely pyramids over collections of dried inkwells and broken quills. Above the mess towered numerous shelves of books, blinding to the eye. Each shelf stretched from the floor to the highest inch of the ceiling. _Vast_ indeed.

Feeling vanquished, Ome heaved a sigh. She wasn’t sure if she should find the book or grab a broom. Shaking her head, she did as instructed and rummaged for a thin, blue manual with gold trim. Unfortunately, Ome found _numerous_ thin, blue manuals – even some with gold trim! So she searched, dimly hopeful that her prize would turn up. But, sure enough, she fell into an agonizing routine of locating a slew of _close_ matches – but not the one she wanted. Instead, she discovered bindings that read: _Crafting Poisons For Weaponry_or _Dynamics In Shape-shifting_. Artorius was correct to assume they wouldn’t return to the cottage until late that evening. Ome’s forbidden search might easily take all damn night.

* * *

It wasn’t before long that Ome gave up hope for finding the book. As far as she could tell there was definitely a system as to how the books were so sloppily arranged – mostly by topics about which she had no concept. She wasn’t certain if Dactyl-building would be closer to _Teleportation Methods_ or _Magical Constructs_. Each time Ome came across tomes that might lead her in the right direction, her mood shifted from excitement to frustration, making little headway in her search.

Some shelves were empty while others were stuffed and overflowing with tomes. Entire rows of books had been noticeably removed from their shelf, and then stacked in some absurd order across the floor. Even a few cases stood empty, as if they were an inconvenience. _This is fucking ridiculous, _she thought. _How will I ever find a “thin blue-gold book” in this shit?_

Exhausted from climbing and sorting, she plopped down next to a stack of books and chose one from the pile. It was called _The Walking Workshop: Chemical Reactions within Yoth Bodies_. Ome opened the book, flipping through its pages. They contained diagrams of Yoth anatomy, very human-like in their depiction. The pages detailed theories on chemicals linked to different organs: the stomach, heart, and lungs. She was amazed at both the complexity and poetry of the language. Paragraphs described secretions and hormones as if they were alchemical agents with each chapter arguing that the body is a living laboratory. _Weird, but intriguing._

She picked up another book: _Accelerated Crop Production_, and saw this one was penned by Mer himself. Then she picked up another: _Harvesting Troll Livers_. It, too, was written by Mer. Ome began to wonder how much of the research the King took upon himself to conduct.

Suddenly, she heard a noise outside the library door. Two voices murmured quietly in the hall, just beyond the threshold. Immediately, Ome hid behind a stack of books, afraid they planned to enter the library. Though curious, she perked her ears, eavesdropping on the conversation.

“You really shouldn’t fret over it,” said a man with a deep and articulate voice. “You know the King is very busy. And who are we to question his ways?”

“But his intentions are usually obvious,” replied another man – but with a timid voice. “I know he’s a bit mysterious in his requests, but never _unclear_.”

Ome craned her neck to see through the crack in the door. The articulate man was tall, muscular, and handsome. His hair was a sleek, dark green and his skin a little less white than the other Wheel citizens. The other man was short, a bit older, and had a slight _pooch_ to his belly.

“These peace talks have been going on for some time now,” argued the articulate, handsome man. “Let’s face it. We’re starving and can’t continue like this. That includes the King.”

“He starves, too?” asked the timid man.

“Yes! For _us_. I’ve seen him go days without eating. When I beg him, he says it is for his people. He’s gaunt and weak. It’s _his_ sacrifice but he is ashamed. But do _not_ tell the citizens. If they knew how feeble he was, they’d lose all hope.” The articulate man draped a muscular arm over the shoulder of the timid man.

“Oh my,” whispered the timid man. “We wouldn’t want that.”

“Never!” smiled the other. “Which is exactly _why_ the King has requested the large armored Sail for the night after tomorrow. I’ve arranged to meet with Fore’s Captain Brush to negotiate the peace talks. Mer is ailing and cannot attend, so he sends me in his place.”

“Then you’ll have it,” smiled the timid man. “It shall be fueled and ready to go by sundown tomorrow, Captain!”

“Excellent,” replied the tall, articulate Captain with a wide smile. The two men walked away from the library door, leaving Ome to wonder. She concluded the politics here were worse than at home. Motivated more than ever to find the book, she returned to her dauntless search.

* * *

As she hunted for _Faces of Passage_, Ome lost herself in thought. It was the only way to pass each mind-numbing moment of grabbing wrong book after wrong book. She thought about everything that had happened to her in such a short amount of time. Her basement, Fore, the Queen, Brush, Artorius, Wheel. She pondered the significant differences between Fore and Wheel. It was fascinating how Fore preserved an organic way of life, whereas Wheel functioned solely on industry. Yet Fore had the food and Wheel had the fortification. It became evident to Ome that each couldn’t survive without the other. Had it not been for the Sleepers, Nim wouldn’t have a thing to worry about. She wouldn’t need anything from Mer. She, most likely, wouldn’t be angry at Mer because there’d be no need for protection. The King would have nothing to deny her. Furthermore, had it not been for the Sleepers, Mer wouldn’t have corrupted the city of Wheel. There wouldn’t have been a need for the fortress or the Hearth-guards. Perhaps Mer could return to Nim and the two could work out their differences. _Or perhaps not._

Ome picked up another book – thin and blue. No gold binding. She cursed, tossing it back to a haphazard pile. Then, she reflected on her parents. There was no way they could have worked out _their_ differences. They tried. At least, that was what she was told. They tried marital counseling, they tried making more time for one another, they even tried to pick up new hobbies together. But Ome knew it was doomed – people can’t force compatibility. She knew her parents, though like-minded, were ill-assorted. Her mother was very independent and her father was, strangely, the same. But they were both _so_ independent of each other that they grew apart. They no longer needed one another.

What neither of them foresaw, as well as Ome, was how short of a time they actually had. Not just with one another, but with their lives. They both died so young, and in such polar ways. Who said everything “natural” was safe and secure? Ome figured Queen Nim would say that. But then she thought of how her father died. Cancer. The most natural killer of all. Dad didn’t take care of himself, but Ome never suspected his habits were quite _that_ bad. None so chronic as to warrant a death as lengthy and as painful as cancer. Dad smoked, which was the prime culprit, and tobacco in of itself was a product of nature. Fire, tobacco, and paper pressed from the pulp of a tree – all wrapped up in a shiny, white stick carried like death between your fingers.

Then Ome considered her mother’s passing. Who said that living a healthy life guaranteed longevity? Mom was obsessed with whole foods, yogic meditation, and regular exercise. The woman never smoked, only drank on special occasions, and the one drug Ome assumed her mother ever tried was a hit of weed at one point or another in her rambunctious youth. Mom _was_ a bit of a hippie, after all. Ome refused to think otherwise. Yet the woman was killed instantly – by a _machine_. Mom’s situation was caused by external factors. The odds weren’t in her favor. Vehicles on icy roads can kill the most resilient of people, even those of strong health and clear minds. Mom just happened to be one of those people.

Ome picked up another book. She thought it looked blue, but as soon as she pulled it closer to her eyes, the binding was clearly purple. Annoyed, she tossed it over her shoulder, no longer avoiding the disturbance of an, otherwise, _disturbed_ library.

Mom’s death happened too fast. Too fast for dad. He confessed that he told mom to go to hell, and Ome pitiably remembered his confession, though her memory was tinged with resentment. The only real hell was being the child caught in the middle of it all. Dad grieved his final words of mom, but what of any grief for Ome? No grief for the child caught in between? She felt cheated by her parents once they divorced. But death truly robbed her, divorced or not.

Ome jumped to a different thought, returning to her earlier queries regarding Nim, Mer, and the two rivaling cities. She wondered why the Sleepers appeared. Why they sprang from nowhere, causing worse tension between the King and Queen. The King hid behind a fortress of fire. The Queen grew numb in her years. And what of the others? Brush hunted relentlessly, burdening herself with worry in place of her Queen’s apathy. The Sleepers were to blame for all of it. But who was to blame for the Sleepers? Ome remembered Nim’s words.

“_Our love died somewhere between Fore and Wheel. And there at the foot of Wheel’s fortress, a crack swelled and burst from the ground. Demons came pouring out, feeding on our people.”_

The Queen’s explanation still sounded cryptic and bizarre. Regardless, it haunted Ome. And at that moment, still rummaging through heaps of books, she thought of Wall. He saved her, and yet he was a Sleeper – the very thing that _burst from the ground_. But he was a creature who felt _something_ and hadn’t let go of that. It was obvious he wanted something more – something _beyond_ his predatory urges. The creature tried to prey on Ome but he _failed_. Maybe she had a stroke of luck, but – oh – how happy she was that he _failed_. Reflecting on the Sleeper’s shortcomings, Ome suddenly felt powerful in a world of vulnerability. Ironic. She couldn’t help but think she had Wall to thank for that.

“Excuse me!” boomed a voice.

Ome dropped a handful of books and spun around. She saw a man standing in the library’s doorway. He was tall and muscular, broad in the chest and thick in the arms. The man was dressed in lavish, alabaster apparel, draped by a long, white robe. His hair was short and spiked back in thick, _red_ tips.

The man’s brow furrowed as his eyes cut into Ome with uncertainty. He walked around a table, glancing down at the books through which she had rummaged, then peered at her with a suspicious glare.

“I – I,” stammered Ome. Her voice grumbled with masculinity.

“Don’t speak to me unless I ask you a question!” he yelled. “Dare not speak to your sovereign without formality! Tell me, old man, must I call my guards? Are you a spy?”

“No!” shouted Ome. She was terrified. Mer was a striking, healthy King, well-built and robust – absolutely nothing how the articulate man had described earlier in the hall. Something wasn’t right. In addition to Mer’s overall magnetism and beauty, other qualities of his were unnerving. His hair was dark red and his eyes were as blue as sapphires. His ears perked out between crimson fringe, with subtle, but familiar cusps on the tips of their cartilage. Artorius said the King was half-human, but what of Mer’s _other _half?

Ome buckled to her knees, begging, “Please!” and as she did, the crumpled note fell from her breast pocket and rolled across the floor. Mer walked over, tall and regal, looming over her like the hulking shadow of a brewing storm. He bent down, picked up the note, questioning what evidence presented itself in her genuflection of cowardice.

Ome fought the panic rising up in her throat. It clenched her by her very breath. She forced an inhale and huffed, all the while Mer un-crumpled the note, opening its shell with a familiar, papery crackle. His deep, blue eyes bounced from the left to the right, reading over words never intended to be shared with, most of all, the _King_. Consumed by dread, Ome slapped both hands to her aged, hardened chest, searching for the familiar beat of her own frightened heart.

Mer lowered the note from his gaze, re-crumpled it, and tossed it to Ome’s knees. “I thought there was something _off_ about you.”

Tears welled in her withered eyes, rolling down the lined cheeks of an old man’s face.

“You are no man,” observed Mer with a grin. “You’re not even Yoth…”

Ome continued to cry, envisioning herself imprisoned somewhere beneath the palace, in a dank place roped with iron and covered in that nasty black soot. She saw herself put to work in a strip mine, digging up those stones Ink had described, trapped forever in the body of an old man, far from her home, _never_ to return.

Suddenly, Mer burst into laughter. Confused, Ome wiped her tears, trying to settle her panic as bewilderment layered right over the top of her dread.

“Artorius never was good at that disguise spell. He couldn’t pass off a horse for a unicorn – not even with glue and a tree branch. Any self-respecting Wizard can see through his tricks. I doubt the crap he pulls even deserves to be called _magic._” The King smiled, shaking his head. “But the Yoth _are_ a simple folk, naturally they’re blind to it.” Mer paused, nodding at the weeping old man who had fallen to the floor. “Stand up...” he said, employing a gentler voice.

Ome stood, though her knees shook and she breathed unsteadily. Like a child exhausted with sobs, her chest bounced as her bottom lip slipped in and out of her own mouth. Mer chuckled, waving his hand more elegantly than Artorius had ever done. Her disguise fell away like a thin shawl, blown by the wind.

The King smiled. “A _woman_. A human woman, in fact. What’s your name – Ome? Is that what the note said?”

“Yes,” she answered in her own voice, noting that Mer pronounced her name correctly.

He sighed and shook his head. “I knew Artorius was sneaking in and out to fetch supplies. A pity he never came to me first. We had no quarrels, he and I.”

Ome rubbed her eyes, still sticky with old tears. “None?” she asked.

“No,” replied the King. “Like any man, he has made mistakes. And I miss him, in fact. He _was_ my closest friend. It was a shame when I had to move, he had already been exiled by my Queen. I offered him a place in Wheel, but he chose to remain in exile, hoping to see his wife once again.” Mer hesitated with a tender look in his eye. “I can’t say I blame him…”

Walking over to a shelf, he removed a section of books. Reaching back, the King twisted something around, and pulled open a small door. From inside the door, Mer removed book after book, until finally he revealed a thin, blue manual with gold trim. The words _Faces of Passage_ glinted in the dim lighting overhead. Returning the other books, he closed the door, twisted the lock back into place, and approached Ome.

“Take it,” he said. “Use it. Burn it. I don’t care. You are obviously lost. Trapped _here_, no less. And I feel your suffering, young woman. I do.” He looked down at the book, then back up at Ome. “I vowed never to build another one of these, not until my Queen loves me once again.” Mer handed Ome _Faces of Passage_ with a compassionate look in his eyes. “If Artorius thinks he can manage these instructions, perhaps it is not too late for you.”

“Thank you,” she said. Ome pulled the book from Mer’s hand and tucked it under her arm.

“The only difference,” added the King, “is that you have nothing _keeping_ you here. And so, before you find yourself anchored down by frivolous emotions, I urge you to get out while you still can.”

Mer waved his hands again, restoring Ome to her disguise. Ushering her out the door, he bid her a good afternoon. With eagerness in his tone, the King reminded Ome to send regard to his old friend – Artorius.


	16. Chapter 16

By sunset, the Fore military carriages slowed on the path near Artorius’ home. Brush, who had been following the tracks rather than the trail, was confused as to why Ome rode Ginger to a nearby grove, only later to veer back toward the cottage.

“Perhaps she was lost,” observed Weden.

“She went straight for his house,” Brush argued. “As if she knew exactly where it was.”

“Maybe she didn’t. Maybe Ginger wandered that way and Ome followed her.”

“Unlikely,” replied Brush. “If the horse was stranded and starving, she’s trained to head back to the castle. Only Whipp knew the way to Artorius’.” Leading her officers down the path, Brush signaled the soldiers to ready their weapons. Weden hurried to walk beside the Captain. His hand rested gently over the hilt of his sword and he kept his eyes forward, on the lookout for danger. As the group moved into the clearing, they spotted Ginger, nibbling on grass just outside Artorius’ home.

“She looks content,” affirmed Weden.

“Agreed,” said Brush. “Check the house.” She waved her subordinates onward, quietly leading them into the cramped little cottage. The infantry bustled through Artorius’ home clumsily, trying not to bump one another. They meandered, searching the den, bedroom, and kitchen. Unable to find the Wizard or the human, one-by-one the soldiers filtered out the front door, waiting for their next command.

“What now?” asked Weden, crossing his arms. “This seemed like a waste of time.”

“You want to tell that to Tirn’s family?” asked Brush. “Or how about Fox’s or Gurt’s? Eight men are dead, and I want to find out _why_. The only person who can answer that for me is Ome. But she’s not here.” Brush scowled, then kicked over a wooden bucket leaning against the sandy-colored stone of the cottage. “And neither is Artorius.”

Weden shook his head, “I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“And why not?” snapped Brush.

“Because,” he said, “it’s obvious he was here recently. Maybe a few hours ago. He clearly ate breakfast this morning. There’s no sign of a struggle, either. Do you think he, Ome, and the Sleepers are _all_ in league?”

“Of course not,” answered Brush, glaring at her Lieutenant.

Weden paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Then he shook his head and added, “You don’t think Artorius sent those trolls after the carriage, do you? Would he _do_ that?”

Brush laughed. “You give my husband too much credit. He’s capable of many things but not that. How could he have known they were coming? Besides, I doubt he’d have any reason to ambush the carriage.”

“Can we say as much for Ome?”

“No,” Brush contemplated, “which is why I fear Artorius might be in danger. Remember, there’s at least one Sleeper nearby. It could be tracking her.”

Weden nodded. “Artorius _knows_ how to handle Sleepers. He’s lived out here for many years – never had a problem.”

“True. But I still need to know if he’s alive.”

Suddenly, there came a shouting from inside the cottage. Brush and Weden turned to see two soldiers waving their arms wildly, beckoning them toward the house. As the Captain and Lieutenant neared the front door, they were approached by a wary Corporal. “We’ve found something!” he yelled.

Weden and Brush looked to one another, questioningly. Brush entered first, with Weden behind. “Sign of the human?” asked the Captain.

“No,” replied the Corporal, “Look here.” He led them to a desk in the back of the cottage, stepping over what looked like dried vomit. “Mind the mess.”

Weden grimaced, covering his nose from the smell. Disgusted and shaking his head, the Lieutenant carefully watched his step. On the table was a thin pile of topical maps and charts. At the top of the pile was a sketch of Artorius’ cottage and the surrounding area.

“Look at this one,” commented the Corporal, pulling a map from the stack.

Brush held the map up to the light. Suddenly, her eyes grew wide and she said, “This is a diagram of the entire Wheel district.”

Weden took the map from Brush, surveying its contents thoroughly. “And not just that, but every sewer and drainpipe,” he observed. “The layouts of every tower and armament. Diagrams of their weapons. Guard outposts. Look how many underground passages there are into the city!”

“Captain,” smiled the Corporal, “I think we’ve stumbled upon a _tactical_ treasure.”

Brush stared at the maps a while longer, weighing her options. Then she set them back down on the table and spoke with conviction. “I’ll remind each of you that we’re in the middle of peace talks with Wheel. These maps could be a breach of trust between us.”

No one argued with their Captain, but all eyes hungrily locked onto Artorius’ elaborate drawings.

“But,” Brush continued, “until peace has been made, I’d be a fool to let these pass us by. Lieutenant Weden, I want you to oversee exact copies of these maps. Have a soldier sketch them up as accurately as possible. When finished, place the originals back where they belong.”

“Yes, Captain.” Weden saluted Brush, motioning for the Corporal to help him.

“And tell the squad to make camp _here_,” Brush added.

“Think that’s wise?” Weden asked. “I don’t like the idea of both of us being so far from the palace. What if there was an attack on Fore?”

Brush understood Weden’s hesitation, but after such a long day, her patience wore thin. The Captain placed her hands on her hips and said, “You have your orders, Lieutenant.”

Neglecting to reply with a “_Yes, Captain,”_ Weden raised his hand in a cold salute and circled away from Brush as if he didn’t want to look at her anymore. He leaned over to the Corporal and instructed the soldier to begin tracing the maps. The Corporal nodded, gathering materials to get started right away. Weden moved away from the table, exiting the den through the cottage’s front door. As he stepped outside, he shouted, “Ready your sleep gear! We make camp – Captain’s orders!” Despite murmurs of disapproval, the Lieutenant’s authority was met with swift obedience.

* * *

Artorius waited patiently on the steps near the Hearth-guard just outside the castle. His eyes remained fixed on the grand entrance, waiting for Ome to emerge. Much to his surprise, she surfaced only a few yards away. He noticed she carried a book under her deceptively long, masculine arm – and she was surprisingly early.

“If it isn’t my _husband_!” he yelled, playfully.

“Just _go_,” said Ome, approaching quickly. “Let’s get outta here. _Now_. Let’s leave.”

“Everything alright?”

Shaking her head, she didn’t speak a word. Artorius nodded and led her down the steps and away from the palace. They crossed over an air-path just outside the gates, walking across endless dirt and soot. As they neared a series of buildings that backed up against the fortress, Artorius led Ome to an isolated spot in an alleyway. They were positioned just out of sight from others. Turning, he raised his hand, waving it in his usual way, relieving Ome of her uncomfortable appearance. She breathed a sigh of relief, which sounded deep and unfathomable. Then Artorius waved his hand again, ridding her of the false voice. Applying the same method to himself, he replaced _Miz_ with his usual Yoth disguise.

“Ready?” he asked.

Ome nodded.

“Here’s the travel potion.” Artorius handed her a vial and kept one for himself.

They raised the vials to their lips and drank. The wind swirled around them as it had done before, and the two disappeared into thin air. Moments later, Artorius and Ome found themselves flat on their backs, having landed in the grass. The cottage was nowhere in sight. Perplexed, the Wizard furrowed his brow. Lifting himself to his feet he smacked leaves and grass from his clothing. “We _are_ back in the Clip Woods,” he said. “Maybe the potion wasn’t strong enough to send us all the way home. I _knew_ I should have mixed it better.” He grumbled, reaching a hand to Ome who was still flopped in the soil. She grabbed it, hoisting herself up, and smacked away similar plants from her own clothing. Artorius lifted his bag of stolen goods and announced, “We’ll have to walk a bit.”

“How long?” asked Ome.

The Wizard looked up at the sky. Early evening was overhead. He peered through the trees, scanning for familiarity. “Not very far,” he concluded. “I’d say an hour.”

“An _hour_?!” exclaimed Ome.

“Yes,” he answered. “It’s only three or four miles. What’s the matter? Can’t handle a bit of exercise?” He smiled.

Ome’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh!” said Artorius, snapping his finger. He pointed at Ome inquisitively. “The book – may I have it?”

Nodding, she still had it tucked under her arm. Ome pulled out the blue book, handing it off. Artorius thanked her and turned to the first page.

“Here we are – _Faces of Passage_. I honestly don’t remember much from this book. Dactyls were always something far outside my circle of interest. Enchanting alloys requires a steadier hand than I care to work with. Potions, on the other hand tend to mix better and–”

“–Can you do it?” Ome interrupted. “Or was this a waste of my time?”

“Temper, temper,” lectured Artorius. He closed the book.

Annoyed, Ome scrunched her lips together in an angry purse.

“I shouldn’t have any problems,” the Wizard promised. “It’ll take a few days, like I said.” He placed the book into his pack and pointed. “This way!” He smiled, moving off into a direction that pursued the sunset.

Saying very little, Ome followed behind. She replayed her encounter with the King over and over in her head. Of _course_ she panicked the moment she saw Mer. She wasn’t prepared to meet him, and no one warned her there was a possibility he might walk _right_ into the library, _right_ at that very moment. Ink simply dropped her off in a hasty scuttle to be alone with Miz. Disgusted, Ome rolled her eyes at the thought. _What a gross old man! Ogling a young woman like that. Ugh. And a married woman too!_ Stopping herself, she shook her head. Miz wasn’t real and neither was Ben. She sighed, noting the ridiculousness of the situation. Nevertheless, the whole charade resulted in acquiring the book. And so, ridiculousness or not, Ome was one step closer to returning home.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Artorius said. “Is everything alright?”

Ome trudged onward, unsure of what to say. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I had a very upsetting experience in the library. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“How do you mean?” he asked. “You were in and out quicker than I expected. What could’ve happened? What’s the matter?”

“Well…” Ome trailed off, pausing a moment to consider whether or not elaborate. Then, feeling obliged to a promise she made earlier, she said, “Mer sends his regards.”

Artorius stopped. He turned and grabbed Ome by the shoulders. “_Mer_?” he asked. “You spoke to _Mer_?”

She nodded.

“I’m ruined,” he said, raising a hand to his mouth. “He’ll be after me! I know it! _What_ did you tell him?!”

Shaking her head, Ome explained, “I told him nothing! He found your note.”

“What!” cried Artorius. “Of all the blundering–”

“–Look,” interrupted Ome with a firm voice, “I’m getting real tired of this shit. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I wasn’t given any warning that the King, of all _fucking_ people, would walk right into that library!”

Artorius’ face grew red. He moved right up to Ome, nose to nose, threw up his hands, and yelled, “It’s the _King’s_ library you idiot!”

Ome’s eyes grew wide and her hand shot forward, slapping Artorius directly across the face. Shocked, he moved back, placing his fingers to his cheek, staring at her with alarming speechlessness.

“I-I’m sorry,” stammered Ome. She looked down at her hand.

Artorius groaned, shaking his head. “No,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like a fool. I have a temper, you know? I should control it better.”

In that moment, Ome felt sympathy for the Wizard. His words _were_ littered with guilt. It seemed that in spite of his playful demeanor, Artorius often struggled to hide his explosive nature. “Look,” she said gently, “if it’s any consolation, Mer wasn’t upset.”

“He wasn’t?” asked Artorius, still rubbing his cheek.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He said he misses you. He said he always figured you were sneaking into the lab. I mean, I dunno, maybe next time you could just _ask_ him for what you need?”

Intrigued, Artorius lowered his hand from his cheek, turned, and continued walking. “Oh,” he replied, “I didn’t expect him to say _that_. I’m shocked. Touched, of course, but mostly shocked.”

Ome followed after the Wizard. “_Why_?” she asked. “Why the _shock_?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.” Artorius picked up his pace, walking much faster than before. “Maybe I assumed Mer hated me after all this time. He never gave any indication of it, but I spent long, lonely years coddling my own assumptions.”

“Well,” panted Ome, trying to keep up, “now you know you were wrong.”

“It’d be a lie if I said I didn’t miss my old friend. Ever since Spring walked into the picture, I lost everyone important to me, including Mer.” Artorius hustled through the vegetation, cracking twigs beneath his feet.

Ome quickened her pace, mildly irritated that he wouldn’t slow down. “You two are old friends,” she said, losing her breath. “What did you do together back in the old world? How did you meet?”

“It’s such a long story,” laughed Artorius. He chuckled as he bustled through a group of shrubs, neglecting to wait for Ome. She sprinted along next to him just as he explained, “It’s such an old story that I’ve forgotten some of the finer details. We’ve just always been friends. Then Mer built a Dactyl to another world. _This_ world. Here he met Nim and brought her to the old world. You know – to give her a tour. Trying to _impress_ the lady, if you get my drift. He showed her the sights and in the process, they fell in love. She convinced him to return with her to Lot. To sit on the throne with her as a new husband – a new King.”

“He wasn’t a King before?”

Artorius shook his head, laughing at the notion. “Hell no. Mer was no King. He knew many Kings, however. Living and dead. He knew what made a King _a_ _King_. And all Kings were human. How he envied them. Judging by his reign over Wheel – Mer emulates them in a way. He embraces those machines now, maybe a little too much, just as any human King would’ve done.”

Ome nodded. She didn’t quite understand, but she nodded.

“Tell me,” said Artorius, “Did Mer mention the Sword? I assume he knows all about it since Brush plans to meet with that son of a bitch Captain of his.”

“Uh,” pondered Ome. “Hm. No. He never mentioned it. Hey, uh, could you slow down?”

“Strange that he didn’t,” replied Artorius, maintaining his speed. “Would’ve been nice for him to have passed along his gratitude. I gave Grehm to Fore! Brush has the upper hand with the Sword. I assume it boosted her confidence quite a bit. I bet that whole treaty wouldn’t be possible without doing what I’ve done. And that’ll bring Mer one step closer to his Queen! He owes me!” Artorius increased his pace.

“Please!” yelled Ome, doubling over, grabbing her knees. She wheezed heavily.

The Wizard stopped and turned. “Oh.” He blinked his eyes. “Sorry.”

Ome stood back up and walked over to him.

Artorius continued on his way, but at a much slower pace. “So,” he continued, “Mer indicated no plans for imprisoning a thieving Wizard?”

“I’m glad all you think about is _yourself_,” snapped Ome. “It could have been _me_ thrown in prison today.”

Artorius shook his head. “I’m sorry. Yes. You’re right.”

“But no,” said Ome. “He didn’t say he planned to imprison you. He said you’re his friend. I believed him.” She paused. “I don’t think he had much to hide.” Then she chuckled.

“What?” asked Artorius.

“Oh,” smiled Ome, “nothing really. Mer saw through my disguise. He said it wasn’t done very well.”

Artorius snorted. “Arrogant bastard…”

“Is he?”

“Oh he is. Where do you think I learned it from?” Artorius kicked a pile of sticks from his path, shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other. “One thing confuses me, however.”

“What?”

“Why were you in such a rush to leave? If Mer was _so_ forgiving, then why were _you_ so upset?”

“I was in shock,” said Ome. “Sometimes I get like that. Sometimes I just want to run away. I don’t feel like explaining it. I don’t think you’d understand. It’s personal.”

“I see.”

“But also,” she continued, “there was something odd about him. It put me off.”

“And what was that?” asked Artorius.

“He looked different. I know he’s not from around here so I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t look Yoth. But he didn’t look human, either. What _exactly_ is he?”

“Yes,” nodded Artorius, as if he knew the subject would inevitably come up. He didn’t reply right away, but instead quietly thought over his response.

Ome waited.

“Mer is what you’d call a Cambion,” explained Artorius.

“A _what_?”

“Cambion,” he repeated. “His mother was human. But his father was not. That’s why Mer is so skilled in his magical prowess. He was born with the ability. A real natural.”

“What was his father?” asked Ome.

Artorius scratched his head. “His father was a Sleeper.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “That’s _possible_?”

“Oh yes,” nodded Artorius. “Humans and Sleepers? Possible? Yes. Ill-advised? _Definitely_.”

“So,” added Ome, “Sleepers existed _before_ Mer?

“In the old world? Yes they did. Not here in Lot, however. Their presence is a newer development, unfortunately.”

“Do you think Mer is to blame for them?”

“Possibly,” grinned Artorius. “Mer is the embodiment of chaos. He doesn’t even realize half the damage he causes by simply traipsing about. He’s a good man, but by nature he’s just _not very stable_.”

“Do they still exist in our world?”

“Do what?” asked Artorius.

“The _Sleepers_,” Ome clarified with a hint of irritation in her voice.

Artorius scrunched his nose and replied, “Not to my knowledge, but we come from a pretty big world. I haven’t seen a Sleeper in the old world for many a century.”

“And that’s how Mer is able to do magic? He’s half Sleeper? Do Sleepers _cast_ magic?”

“It’s debatable,” explained the Wizard. “I have many suspicions about Sleepers. I’ve never seen the full-blooded ones cast any magic. They are physically powerful, yes. And they, themselves, are an embodiment of magic. But to _wield_ it? That requires human intelligence. Sleepers are little more than dumb animals. I’ve only seen what Mer can do. And _he_ is half human, after all.”

“I’m pretty damn confused,” grumbled Ome. “Why aren’t the Yoth afraid of Mer? He’s half Sleeper and, well, they don’t like Sleepers!”

“You heard what Ink said. He called his own King _unholy_. But for the most part, Yoth don’t look at Mer as a Sleeper,” Artorius corrected. “He is a _Cambion_. A Sleeper has no humanity, no intelligence. The stupid things are simply driven by the instinct to kill. A Cambion is enlightened. A thing touched by humanity. Mer wouldn’t sneak into the rooms of Yoth women and feed on them.”

“I disagree,” muttered Ome.

“You think he’d actually _do_ that?” laughed Artorius.

“What?” Ome frowned. “No! I mean, I disagree that Sleepers are just stupid, violent animals!”

Artorius shook his head. “You would. Your little pet has you completely fooled.”

Ome narrowed her eyes. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Let me put it this way,” explained Artorius, “you know how some treat their own dogs like people? It’s a _delusion_. A dog is a dog. It’s not a person. It has far less intelligence than us. A pet owner can fool himself all he wants, but his dog will never be human.”

“So you’re saying I’m delusional?”

Artorius gave Ome a condescending wink.

“Fuck you,” she muttered.

“I’m just making observations,” reflected Artorius. “You know, despite Mer’s very _human_ obsession with technology, as I said he’s a good man. And damn good at magic too. He built that fortress to _protect_ others from those Sleepers.”

“Whatever,” grumbled Ome, still raw over Artorius’ previous indictment. She huffed. “Well I never want to be put in that position again. Getting wrapped up in your bullshit is nothing but trouble.”

“Indeed!” Artorius winked as he reached over, patting Ome on the back. “Don’t worry!” He smiled. “Everything is working according to plan. Both districts _may_ see peace quite soon. And I have the book needed in order to send you home. Before we do that, I just need to ensure the safety of the Sword. And so, you still have to fulfill that obligation.”

Ome glared.

Artorius raised his hands apologetically. “That was our agreement!”

Shaking her head, she followed after the Wizard, stewing over her discomfort with things that _worked according to plan_. Such things seemed too good to be true. If everything was working according to plan, then that left room for only one _other_ thing – disaster.

* * *

“Are we almost there?” asked Ome. Her knees began to feel sore. As the sun set, the night air grew chilly. Despite the sweatshirt and hood, her exposed arms felt absolutely frozen. Rubbing away goose-bumps, she shivered.

“We’re almost there. Give us another five to ten minutes,” reassured Artorius.

“I’m starving,” she added.

Artorius smirked. “You complain more than my wife.”

* * *

The creature was tall, with long, red hair. Much bigger than the female Brush hunted the other day. His muscles clung tight to his form, lean though powerfully built. He glared at the soldiers with those cursed eyes – wicked and fiendishly lacking emotion. He was as exposed as the female Sleeper, baring his naked torso, backside, and limbs. The creature’s reproductive organ lewdly hung above his thighs. Brush grimaced. Every Sleeper she dealt with presented itself that way – but none were quite as fearsome as the one that just walked into plain sight.

The Sleeper posed statuesque and confident in the face of combat. Brush assumed he was an old one. A _very_ old one. The thing may have dated back to the Yield’s onset. Typically Sleepers didn’t live long, maybe six months to a year. But not the one that stood before Brush and her troops. As they aged, these demons gained physical prominence, losing nearly all fear of death. Brush wasn’t shocked that such an intrepid thing walked so casually into danger. Unsure of his next move, she watched him, holding her hand up to her Corporals, indicating they maintain position. The Sleeper stepped barefoot across the dirt, standing tall, fanning his bat-like wings in a defensive arc. He locked his gaze on the only female among the men – Brush. Indicating escape was _not_ an option, he shot her a cold, quiet look.

Brush aggressively lowered her hand and shouted, “Torches! Now!” and every soldier jumped to his feet, grabbing gear and equipment. Some preemptively unraveled their netting, anticipating the possibility of victory against the demon. Brush grabbed a torch, lighting it hastily as the Sleeper vigilantly watched. The demon’s eyes reflected the torchlight, appearing more devilish than before. Some men froze in their positions, too horrified to advance. Others, determined to impress their senior officers, forcibly charged the Sleeper, only to be caught in his grasp before being thrown or crushed.

One man followed after his comrades, screaming madly as he brandished the torch. The Sleeper expeditiously ducked down as the Corporal leapt forth. The demon lifted an arm, knocking the torch from the soldier’s grip. He grappled the man, pulling the Yoth so close that his savage breath wafted across the Corporal’s neck. Teeth sank into the man’s skin, biting and tearing with such brutality that there was no struggle, no opportunity to pull away. The soldier’s bones ripped easily from his neck, and the Sleeper spat them to the ground. Lavishly painted from mouth to groin with the Corporal’s blood, it was as if the Sleeper wore rouge armor. The demon dropped the dead soldier to his feet, landing his body in a pile of others. He awaited his next assailant.

“Go!” shouted Brush, but none of the troops moved. They were petrified.

“We should leave while we can!” yelled Weden. “There’s no defeating this thing. We’re outmatched!” He didn’t feel the attack was necessary unless the Sleeper came _after_ them. The demon appeared to keep his distance. By aggravating a _Sleeper_, Brush was pointlessly sending men to their deaths.

Ignoring Weden, Brush howled in anger, pointing her torch like a lance. She charged at the Sleeper. He stayed where he was, allowing her to advance. Awaiting the painful heat of flames, he stood his ground. Once Brush was within range, the Sleeper flapped his wings forward, violently clapping her across the skull like a cymbal. Stunned, she swaggered and stumbled, dropping the torch instantly. He grabbed her by the hair, pulling Brush close to his body, pressing into her as he tilted back her head, staring into the Captain’s eyes.

“No,” she mumbled.

She looked into the demon’s eyes and her mind grew heavy – cloudy with euphoria. The Sleeper wrapped his arms around her, kneeling to the ground as he gently laid the Captain across the dirt. He hovered over Brush like an elegant wraith, leaning his face into hers. She felt the creature’s lips against her cheek. Weden and the others watched in horror as the Sleeper pulled metal plates of armor away from Brush’s torso and legs. He sought her flesh. As he removed her gear, Brush’s breathing labored, and the intensity of his monstrous grip filled her with inexplicable elation. His grasp tightened as he felt around her ribs, searching for a heartbeat. And in the mix of her ecstasy, Brush felt the Sleeper’s flaccid organ grow hard against the fabric of her undergarments. Such a display was a typical precursor of a Sleeper attack. The demon’s breathing became heavy, in sync with Brush’s. She felt his breath in her ear – a warm, tickling rhythm that pulled her deeper into stupefaction.

“ENOUGH!” cried a voice that echoed against the sky. The cry was followed by a sudden impact against the ground. Weden and the others looked over and there stood Artorius, his arms stretched forward, palms flat. The impact knocked the Sleeper away from the Captain. The creature violently tumbled across the ground, landing on his back.

Ome stood by Artorius’ side, terrified by the brutal scene scattered across the Wizard’s property. Confused at first, she soon realized the creature grappling with Brush was _Wall_. Stunned, Ome called out his name.

Artorius turned to her and shouted, “Get _him_ out of here – NOW!”

“What’s happening?” she cried. “What – _what_ was he doing?”

“Just get him _out_!”

She ran toward Wall, frantic and troubled. He kneeled in the dirt, confused as to what knocked him over.

Meanwhile, Artorius hustled to Brush’s side, checking to make sure no damage was done. “Brush! _Brush_!” he yelled. She moved her head back and forth as if drugged. “Snap out of it!” Artorius shook his wife, forcing her to sit up straight. He cradled her in his arms, repeating her name. Brush rubbed her eyes groggily, trying to catch her breath and make sense of what just happened.

Wall noticed Ome standing over him. He reached out for her. She grabbed his hand and knelt beside him. Draping his long arms around her, he held her tight, nuzzling his chin against the top of her head. Ome discovered his torso was crusted with blood and she tried to pull away. Wall refused to let go, still nuzzling against her as he puffed short breaths through his nose. His skin felt so warm and inviting against her, but Ome shook her head and weakly pushed him away. Standing up, she motioned for him to do the same. “Get up,” she said. “Now. You need to go. _Leave_!”

Wall stood, holding out his arms, wanting only her. Ome held up her hands, deflecting his advance, realizing how badly she didn’t want to. Regardless, it was imperative that he left – they were surrounded by Fore soldiers, some alive and some dead.

“Just leave, ok?” she begged. “Please _go_.”

Wall dropped his arms, glancing beyond Ome. He noted the pile of dead bodies before spotting Artorius as he consoled Brush. Behind the Wizard stood the dancing torchlight of terrified men who awaited their next command. Wall briefly closed his eyes, exhaled, and nodded. Reaching forward, he held Ome’s hand affectionately. She didn’t try to wrench away, but urged him to leave one last time. The Sleeper stared at her with a confusing swell of emotion. She wondered if feelings were so foreign to Wall that he didn’t understand where to place them behind those empty eyes. He reached a hand to her face, brushing his fingertips across her cheek. For such a wicked thing, he showed tenderness. And despite those eyes, Ome swore Wall gave her look of fondness just before lowering his hand and dashing off between the trees.


	17. Chapter 17

Artorius gave up his bed for the evening, allowing Brush to recuperate somewhere more comfortable than the ground. And in the midst of his generosity, he fetched her a glass of water and a crust of bread – just in case. After such an unfortunate altercation, there was little else around his cottage to bring comfort. Meanwhile, Brush curled up beneath her husband’s sheets, still shaken from the attack. Staring off listlessly, her mind no longer raced with worry. Instead she felt numb. _Immobilized_. The trauma of losing control just before blearily waking up in Artorius’ arms endlessly looped in her mind like a whirlpool – a twisting compulsion.

Artorius returned with food, lightly knocking on the bedroom door. He patiently waited for a response and, after a brief moment, Brush softly permitted entry.

“Come in…” Her voice was so quiet it was almost indecipherable.

With a nod, Artorius opened the door and entered his room, setting the food down on a squat table near the bedside. He reclined at the edge of the bed, pinning Brush’s legs beneath old, tattered covers. She moved, repositioning her knees to make room. The silence between them grew, despite the squeaks of the wooden bed frame. Artorius looked at his wife and smiled.

“How are you doing?” he asked, reaching to sweep a lock of green hair behind her ear.

“Better,” she muttered. “I’m sorry to visit under such circumstances.” She rubbed her neck. “Where are the soldiers? Where’s Weden?”

“Out front,” replied Artorius. “They made camp. Hopefully you’ll be recovered by tomorrow to head back to Fore.”

Brush nodded, gazing off in the distance.

“Why are you here?” asked Artorius. He shifted his weight, leaning closer to his wife. _She is still_ _beautiful_, he thought. _Beautiful – right down to the regal curves of those cheekbones. _And when she smiled, they lifted exquisitely, just beneath those piercing, viridian eyes.

“I formed a search party,” answered Brush.

“Why?”

“I had to find the coachman and Corporal who accompanied Ome. And, well, I _did_ find them.”

“Did you?” asked Artorius, raising an eyebrow.

Nodding, Brush continued, “Unfortunately, they were killed.”

“Then what brought you here?”

“Too many unanswered questions. Figured coming here would solve at least one of them. Whipp and Tirn weren’t the only ones killed. I assigned rangers to follow the carriage. Something attacked them too. _Sleepers_. Ome’s body was the only one missing. Hers and that damn horse. And the only thing we could _track_ was the damn horse.”

“Now, now,” hushed Artorius, “let’s not take it out on Ginger.” Brush half smiled. He smiled back. “So,” he added, “is Fore _that_ cautious nowadays?”

“What do you mean?” Brush squinted at her husband. She wasn’t in the mood for skepticism, in spite of Artorius’ playful nature. As she looked him over, the Captain concluded that he’d taken great care of himself in his exile. It seemed her husband packed on extra muscle, and his hair appeared longer – even thicker – than before. Luckily, living in the Clip Woods hadn’t turned him into a bearded hermit, wrapped up in rags, dragging his unruly facial hair through the grass. Artorius was clean shaven, well fed, and sharp in the eyes.

“The carriage, the escort, rangers sneaking in the woods – even the search party. That’s a lot of manpower just to send one woman to my home. Was it the Queen who decided on all that, or was it _you_?”

“Don’t,” snapped Brush. She defensively pointed a finger. “Just _don’t_. The human may have been in trouble. I assumed she needed help.”

“Did you?” Artorius gave her a doubtful look.

“Yes.”

The Wizard’s doubtful look refused to melt away.

Brush sighed. “_That_ or I suspected…”

“What?” asked Artorius. “That she was conspiring with Wheel?”

“Maybe,” Brush answered firmly.

He nodded. “I understand. I hate to say this, and you’re going to hate to hear this, but, Brush, my darling – you’re wrong.”

“Oh,” she grimaced, shaking her head, “don’t _lie_ to me. You don’t hate saying _that_ whatsoever.”

Nodding, Artorius chuckled. “Alright, maybe I enjoy it just a little bit. But it’s true. You’re wrong. Ome isn’t a spy. She simply continued on and found me. That’s all.”

“Don’t fool me,” corrected Brush. “She wasn’t alone.”

Shaking his head, Artorius had no choice but to let his wife be right in this instance. “No. No she wasn’t.”

“I should have known.” Brush took a deep breath. “She controls them, doesn’t she?”

“Controls?” Artorius inquisitively tilted his head.

“She controls the Sleepers.”

“Oh.” He grinned. “I don’t imagine so. Ome has no ability to orchestrate a Sleeper attack if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“And how are you so certain?”

“I’m a Wizard. I know these things.” He was lying. The truth of it was that Artorius knew he, himself, had no control over Sleepers. Being a human provided many opportunities in Lot – but absolutely no mastery over the demons. It was unfortunate he couldn’t pose the true answer to his wife and quell her damnable worries. To Brush, Artorius appeared Yoth. He wasn’t about to switch things up on her. “In any case,” he added, “if she does control a Sleeper, it’s just _that_ one – and I don’t believe Ome even realizes it.”

Brush reached over and picked up the glass of water. She sipped it, then reached for the crust of bread and took a bite. Flaking crumbs across the bed covers, she lazily patted them off.

“Come on,” grumbled Artorius teasingly, “I sleep here!”

Unable to resist his charm, Brush smiled, her mouth full of bread. “Sorry. I’m hungry.”

“And tired, I bet.”

“Yes.”

The Wizard stroked his wife’s hair once again, allowing her to eat a bit, ignoring the mess she made. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in days. He worried for her, hoping that tonight she’d take advantage of much needed rest.

“Brush,” said Artorius. His tone was a serious one. “Since you’re already here, we must discuss something. It’s _important_.”

“What is it?” she asked, her left cheek full of the last bite of bread. Brush smacked her hands together, dusting away the crumbs.

“I know about the treaty. You plan to meet with Spring.”

She chewed her food as the name _Spring_ awkwardly lingered in the air. Artorius resisted the urge to go off on a hateful tangent and pressed to the real issue. “I heard Grehm will be brought along.”

Swallowing the bread, Brush took another drink of water, emptying the glass. Her eyes looked down, unable to meet her husband’s gaze.

“I told you in my letter…” he continued.

“I know,” she mumbled. “You want no harm to come to the Sword.”

“Nor do I want it to fall into the wrong hands,” he specified.

“Well there’s little I can do. What do you _want_? I cancel the negotiation?”

“No,” he replied. “I’ve taken care of the problem for you.”

“How?” Brush’s pretty face twisted up with irritation.

“Ome will accompany you. She’s officially in charge of the Sword. Should anything go awry, she’s to abandon the meeting and bring it back to me.”

“What!” yelled Brush. “That’s ridiculous! Of all the stupid–”

“–No,” he interrupted. “_This_ is how it will be. Or I’ll have the Sword back tonight. You don’t think I can do that?”

“And what would make me agree to this? That _human_ has no place in Yoth affairs. And should something _go awry_, just what in the hell makes you think _she’s_ capable?”

“I’ll see to it that she’s prepared. Besides, you said it yourself.”

“Said what?” huffed Brush.

“That Ome has some kind of _control_.”

“What?”

“Over Sleepers.”

Brush glared. “You said she _didn’t_.”

“No, my love, I said she controls just _one_ of them. And really, _control_ isn’t the right word. The creature simply adores her. It follows her everywhere – wants _no harm_ upon the human.”

“Why would Ome agree to this?”

“Because,” he explained, “I promised to build her a Dactyl in return.”

“You don’t know how to do that…”

“I’ll learn.” He smiled.

Brush sighed. “Ideally, I’d like for Grehm to be returned to you _and _agree on peace with Wheel. But–”

“–But you have your doubts,” said Artorius.

She nodded.

“So do I. That’s why Ome’s going with you.”

The Captain reached up, rubbing hard on her forehead. “I can get one of the Corporals to be in charge of the Sword.”

“No,” insisted Artorius. “It must be the human.”

“Why? Because a Sleeper _follows_ _her_ _around_?” Brush crossed her arms.

“Yes.” He nodded. “That thing follows her like an obedient, love-struck dog.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Brush, shaking her head.

“Tell me,” he said, “what did you find when you went searching for Ome and the others?”

Brush hesitated. “The others were killed.”

“By _what_?”

“Trolls – _and_ Sleepers!”

“Fair enough. But, tell me, _what_ killed the trolls?”

“A Sleeper.”

“And was it the _same_ Sleeper who killed your rangers?” asked Artorius.

“It could have been,” argued Brush.

“Doubtful. That demon wouldn’t stray far from Ome. Plus, how could it be in two places at once? I’ll bet it never lost track of that carriage. In fact, I’d venture to say it monitored the carriage far better than any _ranger_.”

“Watch it,” warned Brush. “Those were my men you’re talking about.”

“I’m just implying,” replied Artorius, raising his hands, “what better insurance against an enemy ambush than a _Sleeper_?”

Brush’s narrow, piercing stare softly faded as a distant expression washed over her eyes. Deep in thought, she muttered, “A Wheel ambush.”

“Do you see my logic? Ome goes with you. It’s the safest plan. Spare your scouts and rangers. Let them live another day. You’ve already wasted so many on this ridiculous excursion. Let the _demon_ target Spring’s men.”

Aggravated, Brush wrinkled her brow, shooting a glance of defiance to her husband.

“Agreed?” he asked, immune to such dirty looks.

“Fine,” said Brush.

* * *

The next morning, Artorius made a large breakfast for Brush and her troops. Fruit, cheese, nuts, sugar pods, and bread. Undoubtedly, the soldiers were happy to start the day with full stomachs. They sat at the table, indulging like royalty on the overflow of alchemized food. Artorius and Ome indulged as well. And as the others ate, the Wizard took her aside, explaining that Brush was well aware she’d accompany the Captain to the meeting.

“Don’t get on her bad side,” warned Artorius. “She isn’t keen on you right now.”

“She never was,” replied Ome, unmoved by such news.

Artorius nodded with a smile. “Welcome to the club, then.” He took a drink of honey water, then slammed down the cup and added, “But rest assured, Brush agrees to bring you, despite what happened last night.”

Ome understood, though wasn’t excited about the idea. She knew the Captain didn’t like her to begin with, but now that Brush was aware of Wall, she feared to know what the Captain _truly_ thought of her.

Artorius produced a pouch that contained several small vials with stoppers, each filled with colored liquids. “These will give you the chance to protect Brush or Grehm should something happen.”

Ome nodded, taking the pouch. She opened a vial and smelled the familiar contents, winced, and then replaced the stopper.

“The green ones are traveling potions – very potent,” explained Artorius. “But unlike the ones we used the other day, these don’t need to be consumed.”

Ome sighed with relief. “_Thank_ god.”

“Apply them to your skin or let it soak into your clothes,” he continued. “There’s one for you and one for Brush. They’ll transport you here _immediately_. You’ll need to allow some time for the potion to set in before it works.”

Ome nodded. Her mind raced with scenarios in which she used the potions to whisk herself away from danger, but hoped she wouldn’t have to resort to any one of them.

Artorius produced three more vials. “These are transmutation potions. Again, these need only be applied to surfaces. They’ll turn things into stone, wood, or ice.” He pointed to each bottle respectively: red, brown, and pale blue.

The remaining bottles were full of dark red liquid and contained floating bits of grit, like coffee grounds. “These,” lectured Artorius, “are combustibles. Shatter one vial and you’ll get a short burst of fire. Good for distractions and intimidation. The flame is quick but it produces a lot of nasty smoke.”

“Can I be honest?” Ome raised her brow. “I really don’t want to use any of this damn stuff. I’d probably get us all killed.”

“You’ll be fine,” Artorius insisted. “These are just precautionary. If things go bad, the teleportation potions should be your first resort. Come here and we can decide what to do from there.”

“You’ll be working on the Dactyl?”

“I’ll begin as soon as you depart,” he smiled.

Ome frowned. She wasn’t looking forward to the day’s trek back to the Fore palace.

After meals were finished and Artorius said a very brief, but affectionate, goodbye to his wife, the soldiers gathered into both carriages and rolled away. As they traveled, Ome could tell the Captain had a great deal on her mind.

“How do I know to trust you?” asked Brush. The question broke the silence so abruptly that Ome paused a moment to confirm that the Captain was addressing _her_. Two soldiers had squeezed between them in the cramped carriage. They remained quiet, feeding off the tension, planning to recycle the gossip later to the rest of their peers.

“I guess you don’t,” replied Ome, boldly. “But Artorius does. Isn’t that enough?”

“Unfortunately for you – _no_. But, in truth, you have yet to do anything. Your _demon_, however, won’t be so lucky.”

“Wall?”

“_Wall_?” laughed Brush. “So it has a name?”

“Yeah,” said Ome, trying not to tighten her lips too noticeably. “He does.”

“Ah that’s right. _He_. We’ve had this conversation. _He _crawled through your window. You fought _him_ off. And now _he _is your little pet, isn’t _he_?”

Ome pursed her lips, then swallowed hard. She swallowed the urge to lash out and slap Brush right in her damn mouth. After all, she was the Captain and commanded respect. But it was at that moment Ome concluded that Brush wasn’t _her _Captain.

“Not a pet,” Ome snapped. “Just a friend.”

“Sleepers are _no one’s_ friend,” said Brush firmly. The Captain’s eyelids gathered down tight, bitterly narrowing her focus on Ome.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” said Ome. “Or what _might’ve_ happened. I know they’re dangerous. That’s why I made him stay away…”

“Stay away?” asked Brush.

“The day of the funeral – I found Wall in a cellar just outside the castle. I told him to leave. I told him to stop hunting people. _Your_ people.”

“Looks like he broke his promise,” said Brush with a sharp nod.

“I couldn’t have known,” Ome bickered. “I didn’t know you were showing up to the cottage. Your troops had weapons! They were ready to _attack_ Wall. He _wasn’t_ hunting you!”

Brush looked out the carriage window, then pointed her unyielding, green eyes back at Ome. “If I ever meet your _friend_ again, he won’t live another day to hunt _anything_.”

* * *

When the carriages arrived at the Fore palace in the early evening, a messenger approached Brush, reminding her to check in with the Queen. But the Captain wasn’t daft, assuming Nim needed to review the terms one last time. Brush’s excursion to the woods took longer than she thought, but luckily the time frame hadn’t overlapped. A missed rendezvous could have potentially started a war, and she was painfully aware of such. The Captain instructed two guards to escort Ome to her quarters, insisting she be locked in until morning. Brush didn’t trust the human. Beyond that, she wished not to risk a _single thing_ the night before she met with Spring. “Stand watch outside her door,” she commanded the guards. “_All night_.”

They saluted their Captain, taking Ome by the arms, roughly leading her away. Ome didn’t object, not that she could have successfully done so – the guards were forceful enough.

As Brush made her way along the corridor, maneuvering through all the familiar twists and turns, she discarded her suspicions for Ome, replacing them with anxiety over Spring. Maintaining an open dialogue with the Wheel Captain was imperative, but seeing her husband earlier that day provided no alleviation for her discomfort. She missed Artorius. She wanted to be with him. But as always – the safety of Fore came first. A respectable Captain couldn’t just abandon her post. And – regrettably – the Fore citizens never wanted to see the Wizard again.

Brush thought about visiting him more often, but her worries for the Queen disrupted that idea. She couldn’t stray far from Nim. The Queen was falling apart, day by day, moment by moment. How Nim pined for her King, yet resented him, neglecting to respond to any letter he sent. The sheer stubbornness. _This dispute could have ended ages ago_, thought Brush. Arrested by one’s past never felt as stifling as it did for the entirety of Fore. So many were affected by Nim’s selfishness and pride. This included Brush, for now _everything_ weighed on the Captain’s shoulders. It had become …_burdensome_.

She was unsure how much more she could take.

* * *

In spite of the Captain’s demand that the human remain locked up, Nim ordered Ome to be brought to her throne. She hoped they could speak privately. The Queen requested that all guards wait outside the doors. The guards, rigidly aware of their security training, insisted on remaining for the obvious reasons. But in a fit of agitation, Nim ordered them to leave.

As she waited for Ome’s arrival, the Queen sat quietly in the large chamber, alone with her thoughts. She could not, in her best judgment, find good reason to send the human to the peace talks. _Artorius_ had insisted upon it, and in spite of her feelings for the Wizard, that was the Queen’s only justification. She regretted having such little control over the situation; too many external variables meshed between the human, the outcast Wizard, and – most of all – Grehm. The Sword belonged to Fore, Nim concluded. It was to her peoples’ advantage. The Queen found little reason _not_ to use it against Wheel.

When Ome arrived, Nim sat up, correcting her posture. Outside the palace, beyond the peaks of the trees, the sun was setting and beams of light struggled to find their way into the chamber. Tall windows cast rich pools of illumination, stratified between long, dark shadows across the floor. To Ome, Nim appeared menacing, sitting alone in the dark. Her majesty wore that same fanned crown masked painfully across her face, hiding all features above her upper lip.

Diverting her eyes from the imposing advent of the Queen, Ome hurried along just before she slowed up, stopping at the foot of Nim’s throne. Waiting, she raised her eyebrows in anticipation.

“I have called you here to wish you luck,” Nim said, penetrating the silence with a voice that echoed against the vaulted, wooden walls. “Tomorrow is an important day for my people.”

Ome cleared her throat. “I guess it will be for me too. If everything works out – Artorius can send me home.” She smiled nervously.

“Yes, the _outcast_,” muttered the Queen. “You do realize it burns me inside to know that the Wizard has _any_ part in this.” Nim shook her head as she delicately balanced the massive crown atop her thin neck. “I would have never involved you except that Artorius wishes for you to _be_ involved. He has bestowed us the Sword, so I must regrettably abide by what he says. The Wizard holds the power of Dashosgrehm. Like it or not, I must acknowledge that power. Grehm retains a supremacy that even a Queen must respect, regardless if it incites fear.”

“I’m impartial,” explained Ome. “He knows it, too. Artorius feels that the meeting should have a third party.”

“A _third_ party?” laughed Nim. “My dear, the whole conflict has been a result of one too many _parties_. Adding another to the pile will not solve it. At one time, Mer and I were quite happy without the influence of others. But that is where things go wrong – when individuals divide their differences and subscribe to conflicting ideals.”

Ome shifted uncomfortably. What was this? Did the Queen summoned her to berate her? She hoped Nim would make her point – and make it quick.

“At one point in time,” explained Nim, “Mer was an outsider too. Did you know that?” She tilted her crown inquisitively. Ome remained silent. The Queen continued, “He is not from Lot. He came into our city one day with Artorius following close behind. They claimed to be exploring the world. And needless to say, I was _smitten_.”

Ome’s brows dropped. “Then, you _knew_ Artorius wasn’t from your kingdom?”

“Yes,” replied Nim. “There are Yoth scattered beyond the reaches of Fore. But my kingdom has yet to explore the world as Mer and Artorius had explored it.”

Ome nodded. It was clear that Nim knew very little about the Wizard. She, like everyone else, believed he was Yoth. Ome wasn’t about to expose Artorius. She had to keep it together so she could make it back home.

Nim smiled as her eyes glanced upward, nostalgically. “I married Mer,” she swooned. “I made him my King. We were a pair to be envied. Love ensnared us and we found ourselves together, surrounded by all that was beautiful and exciting. Our love was like an enchanting song delicately strummed along perfect chords. Nothing could interrupt its melody. Or so I thought.”

Ome took a deep breath, unmoved by the Queen’s jaded romanticizing of an otherwise doomed relationship. Nim rose, descending the steps before her, passing by Ome with an ominous, yet quiet, determination.

The Queen approached a window, her face reflected in the light of a straining sunset. “Brush, too,” the Queen continued. “She captured Artorius’ heart the moment he saw her. Did you know that he followed her through the dancing crowds of every masquerade? Down the streets of every autumn festival? He was determined to sit across from her at the dining tables of every grandiose palace meal. Oh _how_ the Wizard loved her. He loved the sight of her – the sound of her voice. I know – he frequently spoke of his feelings when Brush was no longer within earshot. It grew never-ending. That man’s love for her – one easily tired of hearing about it. But, simultaneously, it was touching. Brush was very beautiful then. Less hardened. She’s still beautiful, but her eyes grow exhausted. She barricades her feelings. My Captain’s emotions are buried so deep, even I cannot gauge them. And that is saying much, considering our friendship.”

“Mer and Artorius,” said Ome, “ – is that how you and Brush became so close?”

“I was already close to my Captain, but those men pulled us together even more. Love can do that, you know?”

Ome nodded, hoping the Queen’s next words were those of dismissal.

“But love is blinding as well,” Nim’s tone suddenly grew dark. “Yes, we were content in our emotions. But what I forgot in the midst of all my rapture was that Mer and Artorius were _outsiders_. In essence, they did not belong here.” The Queen paused, her eyes still locked on the setting sun beyond the window. “Exotic as he was, I do not regret taking Mer as my husband. A Queen may wed whosoever she chooses.”

“You regret allowing Brush too close to Artorius.”

“Precisely. He was no monarch. He wasn’t even a soldier. True, he attended every palace event and every council meeting. Only because Mer was used to having him there, and, eventually, so were the rest of us.” The Queen raised a fist to her mouth, coughing abruptly against the soft skin of her hand. “Mer we understood as a foreigner. But we forgot that Artorius is _not_ from Fore. He is a Southlander. Some kind of traveler. A _vagabond_ Yoth.”

Ome, once again, toyed with idea of revealing the Wizard’s true nature. But once more, she decided against it. As her thoughts bounced back and forth, Nim’s voice prattled on in the background. Ome stared at the dark wooden floor, sighing quietly as the Queen continued talking.

“Artorius always ran off on strange errands. At times, he accompanied Mer on his excursions. I know firsthand what those excursions entailed, because I, too, accompanied them on occasion. But Artorius was no advisor. He was no court liaison. Just a companion to the King. That was all. And despite the fact that my husband loved him dearly, or that he married the Captain of _my_ army – that _outcast_ did _not_ belong here!”

“I’m sorry,” said Ome, shaking her head as she wrinkled her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. “But I don’t understand why you’re telling me all this.”

“Because,” Nim replied, “somehow Artorius is wrapped up in our politics once again. And furthermore, he has involved _you_. I want you to know my feelings on the matter.”

“I just want to go home,” reminded Ome.

“Then do everything Artorius asks of you,” advised Nim. “Because he will do anything Brush asks of him. And as far as I am concerned, Captain Brush _is_ the Fore district. My people are her first priority. I trust her.”

“Yet you refuse to attend the meeting _yourself_?” asked Ome, wondering just what the hell she was thinking, talking to the Queen like that. Perhaps she crossed the line. Too late.

Nim’s bottom lip quivered as she dropped her jaw in the echo of such insolence. She snapped, “It is best that Mer and I do _not_ meet face to face – lest he wants a sword through the heart.” The Queen beckoned her guards back to the royal chamber. As they entered, readying their selves to escort the human back to her room, Ome turned to the Queen one last time and said, “I never meant to come here. And believe me – I understand your distrust of outsiders. But, take it from me, it’ll do you some good to shelve that paranoia. What’s done is done and _yeah_, we all make mistakes, but don’t let regret and fear keep you from making your _own_ damn decisions.”

For a moment, Nim was furious. Behind her mask, the Queen’s brow sunk heavily into the flesh above her eyes. Her mind raced for a proper reprimand. But as she pondered such blunt words, her face softened. “That will be all,” Nim replied with cold profession. She gave a swift nod. A guard gripped Ome by the arm, forcibly leading her through the large chamber doors. Nim remained where she stood, dwelling curiously over the human’s advice.

Alone with her impugning ruminations once again, the Queen returned to her usual thought patterns of inconsolable heartbreak.

* * *

Exiting the royal chamber, Nim realized Brush had just arrived. She looked over her Captain with a stoic eye. “Care to escort me to my room? It’s late. I’m tired. We can talk on the way.”

“Of course,” answered Brush.

The two walked quietly across the wooden flooring, through doorways and arches that led to the one place Nim seemed to never want to leave – her room. As they walked, the Queen asked her Captain about Whipp and Tirn, as well as the others. Brush explained what happened, insisting they hold a memorial once treaty affairs were in order.

“That would be acceptable,” said Nim. “What of the human? I have been informed she is acquainted with the Sleeper that killed your soldiers.”

“The damn thing nearly killed _me_.”

Nim continued walking, her chin pointed forward. “It sounds as though many details are missing from that brief testimonial.”

“There are,” admitted Brush. “And those _details_ are why I haven’t had her chained or executed.”

Nodding, Nim approached her bedroom. Brush pushed against two large doors, swinging them open, holding them in place for the Queen. Nim entered, pulling off the heavy crown, and arranged it on a nearby stand. Removing her robe, she hung it on a hook near the bed. The Queen instructed Brush not to leave just yet, and walked over to her window, opening it, letting the early moonlight fill her room.

“You should light a candle,” warned Brush.

“Do not tell me what to do,” replied Nim. “I enjoy the night sky. And as I’ve said… I’m not afraid of _them_.”

“Majesty,” pleaded Brush, “Your husband is different from _them_. _They_ will kill you. Light a candle if you insist on opening the window.”

“When mixed with human blood, they are _everything_ to us. Beautiful and strong,” said Nim in a fanatical whisper.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” confessed Brush. “But _Sleepers_ aren’t beautiful. Strong, yes. Deadly, yes. But they’re wicked things. _Wicked_.”

“Not my husband…”

“No,” agreed Brush. “Mer was a good man, but he had terrible ideas. Now _look_ at us. We can’t go back, we _need_ to move forward. And you _must_ protect yourself! What would become of Fore should something happen to you?”

Shrugging, Nim answered, “I do not want the crown anymore.”

Angry, Brush dropped the “obedient Captain” act. Now was the time to speak up as a friend. “How dare you! You’ve been our Queen for longer than Mer has even set foot here! And you were always a good Queen. Until now! When _he_ came along, everything changed. And now, we _must_ fix it. Fore needs its Queen!”

“I spoke with the human,” said Nim, uninspired by Brush’s plea, “And do you know what I told her? I said that Fore needs _you_. It needs you more than it needs me. I do love my people. They must never know that my patriotism has waned. But I am tired, and I won’t be Queen forever. Change happens. You cannot work against it or force it. You must sometimes let the chaos ensue – then gather the pieces and press on.”

“Fine words for a _leader_!” yelled Brush, disgusted.

“Hold your tongue, _soldier_,” replied Nim. “Know your place.”

Blinking, Brush looked down and shook her head. “I’m sorry, majesty. I just – I–”

“Leave me,” ordered Nim. “Attend to your duties in the morning. Meet with Spring and perform all else that follows. _But leave_ _me_.”

“The flame,” reminded Brush, weakly. She pointed to the sill where a candle sat, eerily unlit.

“_I said_ _leave_!” shouted Nim. Her eyes widened with rage as her soft face twisted up hard, curling like parchment in a fire.

Brush turned away, feeling helpless as she neared the two large doors. Horrified by her own Queen, the Captain understood Nim’s dark intentions. Her majesty didn’t want to live anymore. Suicide was all but a spoken word, spreading through the room like a mushrooming disease.

“And don’t you dare send anyone to my quarters tonight. Not even a servant,” ordered Nim.

“Yes, majesty,” muttered Brush. The Captain dejectedly exited Nim’s room, pulling the doors shut with a dismal thud.


	18. Chapter 18

Night fell across Lot, but the evening air was warm. Typically, a cool breeze blew in from Hymn Lake, much to the Fore citizens’ relief. But on this night the trees were still, insects buzzed calmly, and candles set in cottage windows burned slowly with a static glow.

The tranquility of the evening proved inconvenient for Wall. He made especially sure to move quietly, knowing the absence of breeze would compromise his stealth. He searched for Queen Nim’s bedroom window, recalling that he had spotted it once before – months ago.

Wall’s memory of the incident was almost picturesque…

Earlier in the year, when the wind blew cold, the plants dried up and turned brown, and wildlife sought refuge beneath the ground within the arms of hibernation, Wall found himself trapped in a world of scarcity. At that time, the Sleeper hadn’t eaten in days, which came as no surprise because such a thing happened to him at least once a year. Wall _knew_ that when temperatures dropped and the leaves abandoned their green, the wilderness provided few things to hunt. Such a shortage caused him to turn all his predatory attention to Fore. Hungry, the Sleeper tracked an unsuspecting male. A lean and muscular soldier – Wall assumed he was a member of the Fore guard. The soldier was on his way to his quarters which faced the Western ridge. The young man must have been of some importance too, considering he lived in the palace. Unbeknownst to Wall, the guard’s resting quarters did not actually belong to him. They were shared, reserved for any soldier who worked the evening rotation. This meant the room wasn’t _consistently_ secured from Sleepers.

Sure enough, the guard fumbled between the shadows of the chamber, looking for a candle. Wall watched and waited, his stomach churning for flesh. When the moment was right, he sprung to the darkened sill among the flicker of surrounding windows. He was ready for his meal.

Wall never forgot the room’s location because he never forgot this particular victim – a male. The Sleeper had little idea if seduction would work on a male, but he had his _suspicions_ about this particular guard. He remembered how the terrified man was every bit as weak as a female, and every bit as _eager_, too. The Sleeper hovered over the young man as he sprawled naked across his bed, embracing Wall energetically, yet languidly as though he were trapped in a dream. The demon’s arms wrapped around the guard’s solid torso, and Wall proceeded to glide his tongue across the young man’s smooth, succulent skin. He tasted the tender, fleshy barrier between his mouth and the appetizing pulse of a Yoth’s heart. And as he tore the man’s heart from his chest, taking care not to cause a commotion, Wall felt a dash of hesitation – this was his _first_ male. Regardless, he completed his hunt, licking the young man’s blood from his palms. When the soldier’s pulse waned between the satiated caverns of the Sleeper’s throat, Wall climbed back to the sill and looked out the window. As he stared across the evening sky, blanketing the wooden rooftops of Fore, _something_ caught the Sleeper’s eye. He was being watched.

Across the palace yard, Wall remembered there was a window high atop the castle. From behind it, a woman stared at him. He froze, anticipating the alarms that often followed once identified. But the woman didn’t call out or look surprised. She just watched, as emotionless as a machine. Not wanting to linger, he flew from the sill, never taking his eyes off the woman until he was a safe distance away, hidden beneath the cover of trees. It was then that he realized she was no ordinary Yoth. Her ornate nightgown, her enormous bedroom – she was _Nim_, the Queen of Fore. Wall’s eyes locked onto the dispassionate monarch as she lit her own candle and backed away from the window, disappearing from view.

Now, months later, he scanned the area once more. Wall found the guard’s room, the one that triggered such distinctive memories. From that room, his eyes followed up the castle exterior, to where he remembered seeing the Queen. Higher and higher, his vision inched right to the very spot he recognized. Nim’s window. No candle was in use. Had it been lit, he assumed he’d have to return the following night, hopefully accompanied by a breeze just strong enough to extinguish the flame. But his current circumstance proved convenient. Wall sprung from the tree, gliding to the palace, digging his nails into its bark-laden surface. Gripping roots and twigs that sprouted forth, he pulled his agile body upward, climbing higher.

He reached the Queen’s ledge and hoisted his feet to the flat surface of its sill. Perched like a gargoyle, Wall froze, scanning cautiously over Nim’s chamber. The Queen was in her bed. No guards were in sight. The Sleeper crawled in stealthily, remaining close to the floor. Nim puffed heavy breaths of sleep, stirring mildly with the rustle of a blanket. He held little fear, but he was unaccustomed to sneaking through a Yoth bedroom without the intent to kill. This time he sought an _amulet_, as instructed by the strange, singing lake. Wall moved around like a quiet animal, careful not to disturb a thing. He crawled deeper into the chamber, identifying tables and chairs, clothing and hat hooks, paintings mounted against the interior – and snuck closer to the fancy, lacy linens that clothed Nim’s resplendent bunk.

Peeking around the edges of the Queen’s bed, Wall noticed something white, shaped like an egg. It rested on a small nightstand, not far from Nim. He had to be nimble in his approach. He had to be sharp in his inspection. Wall stood, leaning over the Queen, reaching out to the strange object. Nim stirred again, sniffing. Then she rubbed her nose and exhaled, settling back to sleep. The Sleeper snatched up the trinket, bringing it closer to his eyes. It appeared to be an amulet, just as the lake described. Needing the convenience of free hands to climb out the window and make his escape, he placed the jewelry around his neck.

Just as Wall was about to move away from the bed, the Queen fluttered her eyes, opening them sleepily. Within seconds her gaze popped open wide and she stared, mesmerized by the creature leaning over her. He looked down at the Queen and didn’t move a muscle. Wall wasn’t there to _kill_ her – he knew better. Ome would be upset if he broke his promise, hunting Fore prey once again. And worst of all, to hunt the _Queen_. Wall was no stupid creature. If he attacked the Queen, the Fore army would stop at nothing to eliminate him. Picking off commoners was a safer choice. Devouring royalty? Not so wise.

Wall had the urge to flee – to dart out the window. Teetering on that urge, something stopped him from hastily giving in. Nim reached up, touching the Sleeper’s chin, then lowered her hand to his neck, sliding it down the sculpted, striking physique of his chest. She caressed Wall’s supple skin for what seemed like an eternity. The Sleeper delayed, paralyzed with conflict.

Lowering her hand along his ribs, Nim smiled. “I’ve waited a long time for this. I didn’t have the courage to do it until tonight. And such a handsome specimen to choose _me_.” Those words escaped in a whisper as her face hardened with sincerity. “Demon!” she cried, “End this for me!”

A light breeze swept through the room, gently quivering Wall’s lengthy, red hair. It hung over Nim as he looked down at her – the prey that begged for death. Such a thing had never happened before – not to Wall. His temptation was crushing. The back of the Sleeper’s throat salivated with hunger. The urge was purely overwhelming.

“Please…” she begged again, gliding her hands lower to the muscled apex above his groin. “How you remind me of _him_. Let _this_ be my final moment.” As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Nim realized the Sleeper wore her amulet around his neck. She nodded and said, “If you do this for me then you may take whatever you like. Take the amulet. Take my crown. Take _anything_. But please _take_ me. Take me away from this life.”

Temptation pounded through Wall as it savagely coursed on a wave of heat, drumming between his jaw and his privates. Fully erect, he leaned closer to Nim, his lips within inches of her upper body. The Queen closed her eyes, unbuttoning her nightgown, exposing a broad plateau of bony flesh housed just between her shivering, naked breasts. Leaning further, Wall’s lips barely touched the center of Nim’s chest, and he could feel the captivating beat of her heart. As the Sleeper licked his lips, bracing himself hard against the brink of attack, his breath tickled the Queen’s skin, enchanting it with stimulation.

Nim’s hand slid down farther, lightly brushing her fingertips against the creature’s erection. She waited for Wall to kiss her, envelop her, then tear her apart, piece by piece. The Queen kept her eyes closed tight and waited, numb, yet tantalized, anticipating everything, hoping to melt into the orgasmic tranquility of death. But she felt nothing.

_Nothing_.

The Queen opened her eyes.

The Sleeper was gone.

* * *

Locked in her quarters, Ome listlessly sat around in the light of her candles, but decided she’d be more comfortable in the dark. She blew out every candle except one – a lantern bolted outside her window – just out of reach. _They’ve fixed it there to keep Wall away,_ she thought.

Ome realized she’d become somewhat of a liability, considering the company she kept. She took a pitcher of water, dipped a towel into it, and leaned out her window. With a deep breath, she tossed the drenched towel over the lantern. Perhaps the dripping water would seep along the wick, extinguishing the flame. And before long, it did.

Ome sat in her room over the next few hours, hugged by the dark, stewing on the nagging sensation that she had to pee. She cracked open her bedroom door, hoping to remedy the situation. To her disappointment, a soldier grabbed the handle from the other side, wrenching the door wide. He stepped halfway over the threshold with a broad, armored chest, blocking her exit. Glaring, he waited for an explanation.

“I have to use the toilet,” she explained.

“Make it quick,” he said sharply. The guard gripped the neckline of Ome’s nightgown, dragging her down the corridor. He pulled her to the latrine, located only a few doors away. As they neared it, he thrust Ome inside and slammed the door. “You have two minutes!” he shouted.

Squatting to do her business, Ome stifled the urge to cry. Being manhandled wasn’t at the top of her list of things to do before using the bathroom. She hovered over the toilet and her bladder emptied loudly against the wooden acoustics. As the sound came to a slow, awkward trickle, tears welled as Ome anxiously wiped them away. She knew the guard was listening.

“Time’s up!” he called. Before she could wash her hands, the guard swung open the door, yanking Ome from the toilet. Without a word, he forced her back down the hall, not pausing to allow her to compose herself. Ome could barely pull her underpants back up, struggling to do so as he shoved her forward. Humiliated and frightened, she persistently fought tears as she scrambled to cover her backside. The guard paid no attention. He didn’t care.

As they neared Ome’s quarters, he gripped her by the hair like a caveman, twisting and pulling her head back, positioning his lips to her ear. “Get back in there and _stay_ in there!” His voice blasted through Ome’s ear drum with what felt like all the intensity of an air horn.

Wincing, she tripped through the bedroom doorway as he let go, ripping black strands from her scalp. She stumbled over the threshold, then fell to her knees. Ome cried out in pain as she stood, rubbing her head where the hair had been torn. Behind her there was a loud slam – then silence. Frightened, she whirled around and locked the door. Sure, they had keys to every room in the palace, but she didn’t care. It _had_ to be locked. With guards like _him_ standing outside – _it_ _had to be locked._

After the bolt clicked into place, Ome turned around, sank to her knees, and clapped her hands over her eyes. She cried as quietly as possible, shaking with half-muted sobs. She missed her home. She missed that damned mirror in the hallway. The filthy, neglected dishes. The mold growing in the basement. Her Mozart. Her _routine_. Ome missed it all. Snuffling, her nose ran with thin, clear mucus, right down to her mouth. She wiped it away like a frustrated child – a child missing its mother. And despite her attempt to form calmer thoughts, Ome’s eyes continued to drip with tears. Sniffing, snorting, and clearing her throat, she breathed deep, over and over, wishing through clenched teeth and squeezed eyelids she could _just_ _go home_.

Then she felt something. A hand. It touched her face, cradling her by the cheek, gently wiping a tear with its thumb. Startled, Ome opened her eyes and looked up. _Wall. _He stood over her with his lips pressed tight, expressing concern. Embarrassed, she wondered if he witnessed the whole scene.

Those eyes – those _black_ eyes – stared into her, wishing they could offer more comfort. Wall knelt beside Ome, softly cupping his hands to her face, leaning his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes and reached around her, making Ome cry even harder, collapsing into his arms. Her cries escaped her lips through choked breaths. Hoping not to alert the guards, she buried the volume of her sobs deep in Wall’s chest. He lifted a hand to the back of her head, lovingly pressing her close.

It was in that moment, Wall made a sound, but it was a _quiet_ sound. He shushed Ome’s cries, exhaling through his teeth. No voice emerged – only a soft _shh._ Still shushing, he reached under her legs, raising her off the ground. The Sleeper lifted and carried her to the bed, allowing Ome to crawl across the sheets and nestle down beneath them. Still wiping tears, she smeared them across her sticky, red cheeks as her face dropped. Ome took a deep breath, weary from emotional overload. Wall climbed across the bed and sat beside her, watching intently, waiting for her to respond.

“Thank you. I hoped you’d climb through my window tonight. Artorius made me tell you to leave. I assumed you’d stay away.”

Wall shook his head, held up an index finger, and smiled. He removed the amulet from around his neck, implying the purpose for his visit.

“What’s that?” She hadn’t noticed it until he took it off.

Pinching both sides of the amulet’s lace, Wall stretched it wide open, holding it over Ome.

“Oh,” she said, “for me?” She cocked her head forward. He gently lowered the amulet, placing it around her neck. Ome looked down with curiosity, holding the white, ovular pendant up to the moonlight. “Where’d you get this?”

Wall had a stoic look about him as he reached over, plucked the pendant from her fingers, and patted it back down to her chest. Then he moved his hand over her heart, pausing for a moment. He felt its movement, the comforting pattern of its tempo, and smiled. Ome placed her hand over his, aware of his curious fixation.

“Is it _different_?” she asked. “From yours, I mean.”

The Sleeper nodded, pulling Ome’s hand to his chest. She felt for a familiar beat, but upon discovery, there was no rhythm to be found. _Empty._

Wall let go of Ome’s hand, then reached behind her, pulling her closer. The two remained huddled side by side on the bed. And as time went on, his grip on her tightened, pressing nearer. Resting his chin on her head, Wall’s hands felt along the human’s shivering, silky limbs, caressing her longingly beneath the sheets. Ome’s thighs nestled between his own as her narrow backside wedged into his lap. The Sleeper maintained control, but coveted the warm tenderness of further stimulation the human could offer. He had hoped the firm bulge against her tailbone went unnoticed – or in the very least came as little surprise.

Listening to Wall’s breath, Ome’s mind raced with thoughts. “I have problems,” she whispered, breaking the silence. “A lot of problems, really.”

The Sleeper remained still, but listened.

“I can't handle anything,” she explained. “I get scared. So scared it makes me sick. In my world, I rarely left my house. It was so bad that I’d carry a vomit bag. Hell, I carried emergency contacts next to my ID, even if all I had to do was run to the store. All those sleepless nights, hearing things move outside my house, wondering if someone was trying to break in. All those fucking 9-1-1 calls – the police showing up, pissed off. I wasted their time. They issued warnings. And the fake home security stickers. Or the flood lights over the garage. I’ve lived in fear for so long. Shit, I’ve lived in _hiding_ for so long. After losing everyone, after being attacked – I’m weak. I’m fucking terrified and _weak_.” Ome sighed. “I feel like a cripple.”

She paused, wondering if any of that made sense to Wall. His attention seemed fixed on her, and the moment she said  _cripple_ he tightened his embrace.

“And here I am,” she continued, “as far away from home as ever. When you came along, you were the first real threat, but you’re not a threat at all. Everyone here’s so afraid of you. But between us – it's different. I feel _safe_ with you.”

Ome leaned back, pushing closer to Wall. He hugged on her attentively, lowering his head, gently pressing his lips to her cheek. “Such a strange thing,” she said. “I haven’t had an attack in awhile. A bad one, I mean. I’m shocked I didn’t have one tonight.” She looked down, thinking on what she’d just said. “I wonder if I’m getting better. I’ve spent so long doubting my own strength. Is there a chance I can get  _better_ ? I’ve always wanted to be  _that_ person – the strong type. I’ve never been strong.  _Never_ .” She felt Wall’s breath against her. The warm, wet sensation tenderly grazed her skin. “Does it take strength to deal with life? Or does it take bullshit and lies?” Ome exhaled, feeling exhausted. “Maybe it takes both.”

She sighed again, turning her head around to look at Wall. Her lips barely touched his. The Sleeper remained still, suspended in restraint against an impending kiss. He didn’t advance on her but, deep down, she wanted him to. Frightened of intimacy as usual, Ome froze. Wall waited for her to say something, unable to fill the silence on his own.

“For what it's worth,” she whispered, “I have _you_ to thank.” As she spoke, her words softly brushed his lips. Every _fff _and _wh _nipped at the Sleeper’s mouth. She trailed off, staring into his eyes, ignoring their mirage of emptiness.

Wall  lifted his chin, kissing Ome on her forehead. She closed her eyes and rested her head flat against his chest, unable to hear a familiar heartbeat. Only silence. The two held one another as the equally hollow sounds of the night filled the room. She dozed a bit, then jolted awake, sleepily reminding Wall to watch the door.

“Be sure to leave before sunrise,” she yawned. “They’ll be coming.” The Sleeper nodded, giving Ome the satisfaction of undisturbed sleep. As Wall held her tight, even well after she fell asleep in his arms, her breathing pulsed against him like a tranquilizing serenade. For once, something as wicked as a Sleeper felt what could only be described as happiness.


	19. Chapter 19

Brush woke early in the mornin g, tired from a restless night. The Captain was antsy to meet with Spring. She wanted nothing more than to be done with the treaty. She was accustomed to poor sleep, but regarding the night before her meeting “poor sleep” was an understatement. Brush’s insomnia led to an overtaxed soldier staring back at her in the mirror, blinking heavy eyes surrounded by dark circles. She sighed, fighting the exhaustion, and continued with her morning routine. As she prepared, her thoughts wandered to the Queen, hopeful that Nim’s irrationality was fleeting, but doubtful that last night was the end of her suicide attempts.  _This is just the beginning, _ she realized.

Brush put it out of mind as she readied her armor, suiting up in front of a full length mirror. Pulling her hair back, she tied it tight to her head with a small, beaded rope. When she was finished, she rescued Grehm from its hiding place and strapped the weapon to her back. Taking one last glance in the mirror, the Captain groaned softly and exited her quarters.

As  Brush made her way toward breakfast, she stopped with the guard outside Ome’s room. “Get her up now. Make sure she eats. Escort her to my carriage in one hour.”

The Corporal acknowledged his Captain with a salute, turned, and banged on Ome’s door. Brush chose not to hang around. She didn’t want to. She just wanted to eat and be on her way. What was important? Getting the treaty in order – getting her kingdom in order.

* * *

One hour later, Brush saw her soldiers approach the carriage. Holding Ome by the arm, they vehemently pulled her through the grass. Strapped across her waist was the leather pouch Artorius had given her – the bottles within clinked together as she was shoved forward.

“That’s enough,” commanded Brush. The guards let go of Ome, who straightened out her sweatshirt. The Captain motioned for the human to follow behind as she hoisted herself into the carriage. Doing as she was told, Ome stepped up behind Brush. And as both women took their seats, they ended up positioned across from one another, trapped in an enclosure of uneasiness.

“Where are we headed?” asked Ome.

Brush ignored her. Pressing her armored fingers to her lips, she stared quietly out the carriage window. The cool, silvery metal of the Captain’s gauntlet rested gently against her rosy mouth. She watched citizens bustle past the window, meandering around two guards who approached from the barracks.

“Well?” probed Ome.

“It’s a place not far from here,” replied Brush, still gazing out the window. “It’s halfway between Fore and Wheel. We call it the Common Ground – a place for negotiation. It’s where our ancestors built stone ruins. _Spiritual_ pursuits – ones that have long been lost to us. Not that I care. The stones are little more than _junk_ now.”

“I see,” said Ome.

“I’m warning you,” added Brush, still looking out the window, her eyes no longer focused. “If your _pet_ shows up – I’ll kill it. I don’t care what Artorius said. I don’t give a damn what _power_ you have. If that Sleeper shows up – it’s dead. My soldiers have their orders. We risk _nothing_ today. Got that?”

Ome’s face tightened with an air of insistence. “It’s not in my control if he shows up.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“Please… _don’t_ kill him.”

Two more guards approached the carriage. The first climbed in and sat beside his Captain while the second yelled up to the coachman, ordering him to depart. The coachman hollered back, regarding the order. The remaining guard ducked inside and sat next to Ome. With the crack of a whip the carriage wheels began to roll forward.

Brush turned away from the window and glared sharply. Ome fidgeted in her seat. The Captain’s next words were as barbed and bitter as an icy fishhook. “You disgust me.”

* * *

Wall made sure to hide himself in the cover of the trees. He saw the way those soldiers handled O me – and he didn’t like it. But he knew she wished them no harm, no matter how they treated her. She didn’t want any more bloodshed. The Sleeper understood what was happening that day, though he didn’t understand his place in all of it. Oblivious to how he had been baited like a shark to follow the proverbial  _scent of blood_ – just in case something should go awry.

Wall realized that ever since his encounter with the  female Captain, the Fore soldiers treated Ome like a hated thing. That was  _his_ fault. And so, he remained out of sight, hopeful not to incur further abuse upon the woman he adored. Sneaking from tree to tree, the Sleeper watched as the carriage tumbled along the dirt path. He followed its trek across the wooded terrain, hanging back in the distance. His eyes fixed on the road as his ears perked to the strained creaking of wheels beneath the heft of passengers’ weight. Ome wasn’t to be left alone, he decided. Not for one moment.

Wall had plans – yes he did. As soon as that meeting was over, he planned to  _take_ the human. Take Ome away. Somewhere they could be alone, far from the turmoil augmented between Wheel and Fore. Far from demon hunters, contemptible Wizards, and singing lakes. He  _wanted_ her. As soon as that meeting ends, he thought, Ome would be  _his_ .

* * *

The Fore coalition arrived at midday. As the carriage rode up from the dirt path, it entered into a clearing that displayed multiple stones erected in an unsystematic oval. Other stones, broken down from weather, were not so tall, but rather flung to the ground like hefty pieces of shattered granite. Spring and his two men waited by these very stones, lounging against them like adolescents with nothing better to do. Meanwhile, in the carriage, Brush removed the Sword from her back, handing it off to Ome.

“Strap it around your shoulder, then let it hang down your spine. That’s how it’s worn.”

“Why am I carrying it?” asked Ome. She wasn’t burdened by the gesture, but rather shocked that Brush entrusted the weapon to her.

The guards hoisted themselves from their seats, exiting the carriage. Brush peeked out the window, eyeballing the short path to the clearing. “Artorius wants you to keep an eye on it,” she said. “So keep an eye on it.”

Ome nodded, looking down at the Sword in her hands. It was big and the blade was pure white – a dull, cloudy white, lusterless and milky in appearance. The hilt was black and gold, comprised of strange markings. She lifted the strap around her shoulder, positioning the blade along her back.

“No... uh... cover thing?” asked Ome.

Brush’s eyes narrowed. “A  _sheath_ ? No. Try not to stab yourself. Let’s go.”

Opening the door, the Captain stepped down from the carriage. She didn’t wait for anyone, and let go of the handle. The door swung back, nearly clocking Ome in the shin as she stepped out. Nevertheless, Grehm and all, Ome jumped down to the grass and erratically scrambled after Brush. The weapon was not as heavy as she thought it would be.

Brush paused near the coachman and ordered him to remain by the carriage. Then she pointed at her two guards and motioned for them to follow her deeper into the clearing. Spring was just up ahead,  standing against an old ruin, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in anticipation. He spotted Brush and opened his arms wide, greeting her as if they were old chums. She nodded, disinterested in returning the embrace, and took a seat on one of the stones.

“Hello, Captain,” said Spring. “Been well?”

“I’ve been better,” said Brush. “I’ll be much better after this meeting’s over. I expect to have many changes underway this morning.”

Spring grinned and took a seat. Brush’s guards remained standing a few yards behind her. Her counterpart’s men did the same.

Spring nodded.  “I see you brought two men just as I’ve brought two men.”

Ome hurried up beside the Captain, taking a seat next to her.

“Please remain standing,” ordered Brush.

Ome slowed her haste and stood back up.

“Back _there_ – with my guards,” Brush added, rudely pointing a thumb over her shoulder.

Frustrated, Ome scrunched her brow, turned around, and moved back.

“Wait,” said Spring. “_Who_ is that? What’s going on?”

Brush clenched her teeth, annoyed that Ome was even there at all, and replied, “A keeper of Dashosgrehm, appointed by Artorius. A  _human_ . His demands, not mine. And yes – it throws off our numbers. You brought two, I brought three. It was an unexpected change at the last minute. But we’ll discuss the Sword after we discuss our terms. Agreed?”

“Very well,” huffed Spring.

Brush handed him a slip of paper specifying the demands and compromises on behalf of Fore. “Do you have  _your_ list?” she asked.

Spring smiled, pulling out his own slip of paper, and exchanged it with hers. The two quietly read over one another’s demands, giving no indication of acceptance or disapproval. Ome turned away, glancing at Brush’s guards who stood a few yards behind. She hadn’t joined them just yet and was too nervous to move while the two Captains poured over their agreements. She didn’t want to disturb them – Brush was already on edge.

Ome thought she saw something in the woods, right behind the soldiers. She squinted, looking to the tallest tree. From above there appeared the silhouette of naked, pale muscle and two dark eyes watching between the leaves. She smiled, albeit briefly, and soon turned herself over to worry. Brush’s earlier threats weren’t to be taken lightly.  _Just stay up there, _ Ome thought.  _Please._

* * *

Wall watched the crowd gather below, keeping hi s eyes locked on Ome. He realized that she noticed him. Reassured, he mentally prepared himself to jump down and scoop her up, assessing when the right time would be. He assumed that when she no longer carried that Sword – then she was all his. His only other concern was  _where_ to take her.

If he found a place, Wall could keep Ome there – keep her safe. He planned to stay with her for as long as such a thing was possible. His mind wandered to other thoughts, dwelling happily on the idea of the two of them together forever, locked against one another through every waking day. The thought of holding Ome close every night, like a possession – something rare and precious – it filled the Sleeper with arousal. He didn’t need the Yoth’s hearts anymore. He didn’t hunger anymore!  _Hunting_ was a thing best forgotten. Wall was consumed with thoughts of Ome’s eyes, lips, hair, and skin – the very scent of her! Such deliberations overwhelmed the Sleeper with a happiness that seemed so  _dangerous_ – it felt disgracefully  _sublime_ .

* * *

“I think these terms look just fine,” noted Spring. He set down Brush’s list and smiled.

Meanwhile, she stopped reading. Looking up, Brush stared curiously. “You do?” she asked. “ _No_ discrepancies?”

Spring shook his head. “None,” he said. “And what of  _my_ terms?”

“Well they _all_ sound fine, to be honest. I’ve yet to find anything disagreeable.”

“Splendid,” smiled Spring. “Then let us do what we agreed on. With the Sword, I mean. Have the human take it off and bring it here. Then we’ll sign off on the treaty, and we’re done.”

“Wait,” said Brush. “_That’s_ the only problem.”

Spring scrunched his  brows and crossed his arms. “ _What’s_ the problem? I’ve given you no problems.”

“About the Sword.” Brush bit her lip. “Nim left the decision up to me. And I’ve decided that it can’t be destroyed. I’m sorry. There _needs_ to be a compromise. At this point, I’m honor-bound to protect Grehm.”

Spring’s eyes narrowed. “We can’t just allow Fore to keep it. Even if you gave it back to that  _Wizard_ husband of yours, Dashosgrehm would belong more to Fore than to Wheel. That would be rather one-sided, don’t you agree?”

“I do,” admitted Brush. “But I have an alternative. I’ve been thinking it over these last few days. Hear me out.”

“Very well,” said Spring, lifting his hand, gesturing that she continue.

Brush cleared her throat, crossing one leg over the other. “ _No one_ may destroy the Sword, but Fore agrees not to keep it. Grehm is a dangerous weapon. It has no place in either of our districts. It’ll only drive yet another wedge between us. As much as I wish we could destroy it, I’ve sworn not to.”

“Surely,” argued Spring, “the good of your kingdom outweighs a promise to your outcast of a husband.”

“No,” replied Brush. “And you know why. We wouldn’t _be_ in this predicament if I had stayed faithful to him. Artorius wouldn’t have found the Sword. Grehm would have stayed hidden for who knows how long. It would’ve been a burden to no one, not even him. Yet now he _is_ burdened with it – to protect it above all else. We _both_ owe this to him.”

Spring tightened his grip between his crossed arms. “You’ve yet to offer a solution.”

“I’m not finished.”

“Go on.”

“Therefore, I’ve reached another option.” Brush turned, gesturing to Ome, whose eyes popped, bewildered by the sudden attention on her. “The _human_,” said Brush. “The human will keep Grehm. She sides with neither of us. She opposes neither of us. Leave the Sword in _her_ possession. And perhaps with the help of _your_ King, we can send her back to her world. Mer, unlike Artorius, is skilled at building Dactyls. If he agrees to send Ome home, Dashosgrehm goes _with_ her. We destroy the Dactyl after she leaves, and both Ome _and_ the weapon may never return.”

“Are you sure about this? I-I don’t thi–,” stammered Ome.

“_Those_ are your orders!” snapped Brush. “That is, as long as they’re agreed upon by both districts.” She nodded to Spring. “What do you make of these terms?”

“I agree that it’s a fine idea not to destroy the Sword,” he replied, standing to his feet.

“You do?”

“Yes.” Spring glanced to the ground, kicking a small stone from his path. “But I disagree to hand Grehm over to a human.” He raised his head, staring hard into the Fore Captain.

A dark feeling washed across Brush as she caught the look in his eye. She recognized that conniving expression, coupled with words so obviously twisted around the discussion.

Spring lifted his forearm, suspending it horizontal to his body. It was covered in the strange armor that provided a mechanism to lift heavier weapons. Though he held no weapon in his hand, the Wheel Captain pushed a flap on the armor, opening it to a motherboard of blinking lights and complicated switches. Pressing a button, it lit up with a red glow. A flash of blue erupted behind Brush as she turned to see her two guards trapped in some kind of energy field. At that same moment, an armored Sail hovered through the vegetation, pulling up alongside Spring and his men. The Sail’s pilot stepped out of the vehicle and opened the side door, revealing two more soldiers – fully armed. The vehicle waited as the soft hum of a motor coursed through the Common Ground.

“What is this!” cried Brush, withdrawing her sword.

“Not so fast, Captain – or else.” Spring clicked another button and the field around the two guards buzzed loudly. The men vaporized into thin air. “Drop it.”

Stunned, Brush dropped her weapon to the ground. “Where are they? Are they still alive?”

Spring laughed. “Of course  _not_ . Now, you don’t want the same to happen to you, correct? Just give me the Sword and you can take your human and go.”

“What the hell did you do!” screamed Brush.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” said Spring. “A little trick I learned from studying under Mer. He had yet to design a weapon like this, insisting it’d be unfair _and_ inefficient.” Spring shrugged. “He was correct. We had to arrive early to set up the perimeter. Luckily your men stepped right into it. Fore folk are so ignorant to technology – it’s laughable.” Pausing, Spring cleared his throat and smiled. “_Lucky_, though. It could have turned out sloppier than this. Too bad the energy field isn’t fine-tuned enough to use in a battle, eh?” He winked. “But we’re working on that.”

“Bastard!” yelled Brush.

“Now,” said Spring, his eyes fixed on Ome, “_give me the Sword!_”

Something stirred in the trees . It violently broke through the branches as twigs and leaves fell to the ground. Wall leapt from above, landing at the edge of the clearing. He stood near the entrance, not far from where Brush’s guards were killed.

Spring took one horrified look at the Sleeper and shouted, “Demon!”

Brush jumped back.

Spring and his men hurried, sc rambling over one another. He yelled, “Grab the human!”

Ome reached for the potions at her side, but fumbled as  two soldiers restrained her, removing the pouch from her waist. She tried kicking and flailing but Spring’s men were much too strong.

Just outside the clearing, the Fore coachman hopped down from his carriage, having heard the commotion. He ran toward the sound, only to discover a Sleeper charging after a group of Wheel soldiers as they forced Ome into a Sail. One of the soldiers pulled a weapon from the back of his armor, pointing the contraption at the coachman. He took aim and fired, killing the poor man on sight.

Brush darted after Ome, grabbing her by the arm, attempting to wrench from the Sail. The weight of Grehm on the human’s back, however, made her much too heavy. That coupled with Spring’s men, provided enough resistance Brush simply couldn’t overpower.

As Wall picked up speed, charging at the  crowd around the women, Spring grabbed Brush by her hair, shoving her into Ome, forcing them both into the vehicle. Then he and his men climbed in, slamming the door. The Wheel Captain ordered the driver to  _hurry_ . The driver smacked a button, moving a lever around frantically, and the vehicle sped away – quicker than any Sleeper could travel.

Wall collapsed to his knees as they disappeared through the foliage, faster than any beast or bird. Devastated, he clapped his hands to his face and bent forward with grief, sickened that he lost the one  _beloved_ thing he swore to protect.


	20. Chapter 20

Inside the Sail, Spring and two of his men sat across from Ome and Brush, pressing the muzzles of their modrifs to the women’s throats. A third man, who was unusually heavyset and muscular for a Wheel soldier, sat between  their captives, clutching Ome’s potion satchel. The pilot and his gunman remained up front behind a glass barrier, operating the Sail from a separate compartment. Hopelessly outnumbered, the women waited for Spring to make the next move.

“My Lieutenant will know I’m missing,” threatened Brush. “Fore will burn Wheel to the ground for this.” Heated with adrenaline, she pressed her neck hard into the end of the soldier’s modrif.

Spring leaned forward, striking Brush across the jaw. The skin along her mouth split to a bloody crack. Regardless, the Fore Captain’s head whipped back into place as her glare locked onto Spring. She was more resilient to a punch than he had anticipated. Brush’s damaged skin bled as she opened her jaw wide, working away the minor inconvenience of a coward’s punch. “As for this ambush – Mer shows his aggression after all. A stupid move on his part. Your people  _will_ die.”

“Not that it matters for _you_ to know,” Spring admitted with confidence, “but Mer _doesn’t_ know about this. He’ll suffer just as much as Fore.”

Ome shifted in her seat as Grehm  hung from her back, awkwardly pinned between her and the upholstery. She was frightened, too frightened to speak out. She wouldn’t have known what to say. But one thing was for certain – she didn’t want anyone to die.

Brush grinned skeptically.  “Am I supposed to believe that?”

“Doubt me if you want,” Spring replied, “but I’m sure it burns you inside to hear it. Do you think I’m _alone_ in my cause? The people of Wheel grow tired of their current situation. Many citizens – and soldiers – would rather see _me_ as their King.”

“Ha!” Brush threw her head back. “A liar _and_ a traitor! You always _were_ a crooked son of a bitch.”

Spring kneeled close to Brush and smirked. “Better than being a whore.” He winked.

“A _whore_?” she asked, conjuring bitter amusement. “Forgive my dissent, but I received no compensation from a night spent with _you_. But you, Spring, _you_ became the King’s pet, socially fucking your way to the top – all the way to Wheel. And now look at you! Ready to tear the throat from your very panderer! There’s only _one_ whore among us and he’s a needy, ungrateful _weakling_.”

“Bitch,” muttered Spring. “That’s enough chatter for today.” His voice angrily trembled over those words as he snatched a modrif from a guard, thrusting its wide, black barrel deep into Brush’s forehead.

“NO!” screamed Ome. She was out of her seat, impulsively shoving the weapon away from Brush. Without hesitation, Spring switched his aim, firing on Ome instead. Something deep in her gut felt warm and heavy as she collapsed to the Sail’s floor. In the wake of her fall, the blast from the modrif rattled the vehicle’s insides, creating a dreadful resonation that pounded the passengers’ eardrums.

As nearly everyone cupped their heads,  Brush seized the chance to strike the men across from her. She reached for Ome’s potion satchel and swung it at Spring’s face. The Wheel Captain ducked out of the way, but the leather pouch unfastened, sending glass bottles flying into the direction of two soldiers. The vials shattered, soaking the men with potent liquids.

As the hapless soldiers panicked, wiping the colorful residue from their eyes, Brush grabbed Spring, wrenching his arms to and fro. The heavyset soldier scrambled from his seat, throwing fists, attempting to pull her from his Captain.

Alert to the commotion, the pilot and gunman  turned their heads to the erupting chaos. As the pilot lost sight of his air path, the steering mechanism slipped from his control, and the Sail hit a sharp, tall rock that might have otherwise been avoided. The impact cuffed the vehicle so violently that Brush toppled over and slammed into the rear passenger door, thrusting it wide open. The door swung wildly in the air, slapping against the dense exterior of the Sail like a frenzied, flapping wing of metal.

Powerful winds erupted throughout the vehicle, swirling around heads and bodies in a howl of thunderous turbulence. Brush reached forward, clinging to Spring’s neck, pulling him toward the opening. His arms shot back, choking her as he resisted the force of Brush’s weight and the vacuum of pressure drawing them both out. But in less than a second, the Fore Captain dropped her body back, holding tight to Spring. The two tumbled out of the Sail, combatively grappling one another as they rolled along the soil in a tumult of knees and elbows.

The unfortunate soldiers doused in Artorius’ potions screamed at the tingling sensations that spread across their bodies. The mixtures took effect and the heavyset man cried in horror as the first soldier’s flesh slowly transmuted from wood, to stone, and then into a compound of the two, leaving the soldier a gooey heap of synthesized matter. The second soldier convulsed in a grotesque way as pieces of his body disappeared one after another, suffering the effects of teleportation potions.

“Close the door!” shouted the pilot through the glass barrier. The heavyset soldier snapped from his shock and reached his arm into the wind, forcing the broken door closed. Heaving a breath of exhaustion as the noise suddenly came to a dead stop, he locked it into place.

Ome twirled around on the floor, helpless and unable to stand. Grehm had fallen from her back during the commotion, ending up halfway beneath her seat. She heard the men speak as she pivoted back and forth like an egg as it would roll across a tabletop.

“Should we stop?” asked the pilot to the gunman.

“No,” replied the gunman. “We have the Sword. Spring’s orders were to get it back to Wheel. He said with _or without_ him.”

Ome watched as the heavyset man reached down, grabbed Grehm, and placed it across his lap. It was in that moment of watching the Sword taken from her that she realized she had trouble breathing. Something thick and hot clogged her throat. It tasted like old, stale coins.

“...but it’s useless without the Captain...”

Reaching down to her stomach, Ome felt pressure. Something terrible and suffocating, isolated to her abdomen. She felt a hole in the front pocket of her sweatshirt, burned right through. There was a wet mass of bulging tissue. It seemed the hole pressed deeper than her clothes and skin. Surveying the wound, Ome poked her fingers in a bit too far. The sensation was warm, slick, and doughy. She winced. Her hand recoiled, and Ome’s fingers were covered with a sticky, red film. Groaning with pain, she cupped the injury in a feeble attempt to make it better.

“...I’m just following orders...”

Ome’s breathing slowed and her mind blipped in and out of meaningless thoughts. Her vision blurred as that uncontrollable lump in her throat rose higher than ever before.

* * *

Wall didn’t stay in the clearing for long. The Sail traveled faster than he could, but regardless, he was determined to t rack it. It wasn’t feasible to give up. He didn’t take to the trees as usual, but instead used his wings, gliding swiftly along the path into the direction of Ome’s kidnappers. Though he was vulnerable in the open, the Sleeper moved faster that way.

On that day, both districts had forgotten all about the Sleepers as their cities dangled on the edge of war. Wall had nearly forgotten all about the Sleepers, himself. An odd thing, to forget one’s self, but that was how he felt. Forgetting who he was, _what_ he was – all that mattered was Ome. Something larger than himself bubbled up inside. It was a feeling he had never experienced before – something wild and superb. Wall knew that whatever changed inside him, it was powerful. Powerful enough to reshape a world, whether for good or bad – for life or death.

* * *

Artorius finished his lunch, wondering what his future held with Brush. Seeing her that last time was pleasant, but it happened under such unfortunate circumstances. He missed her, and the more he thought about it, the less he approved of her as Captain. The truth was, Brush could die at any time. The Wizard fearfully lived with that truth for many years – whether it was as her husband or as an outcast. Naturally, he never wanted to hear the news that his wife was slain in combat or attacked by Sleepers.

_Slain in combat…_

Out of the corner of his eye, Artorius caught a glimpse through his kitchen window. At that same moment, he heard a sound. Something smacked against the rusty buckets and moldy firewood stacked along the exterior of the house. Confused, he lifted a stained rag to his lips, dabbing away bits of wheat and gravy. Then he hustled to the front door, opening it as he ducked his head out, curiously glancing around. At first, the Wizard didn’t see a thing. Off to his right, one of his sheep stared blankly from its pen, flicking its tail as it mindlessly chewed on grass. Artorius blinked back at the creature, and then scanned his eyes to his left.

_A leg._

The Wizard froze, then slowly stepped out his front door. He took a breath as he urged his mind not to jump to any conclusions. _A leg. An arm. Another leg. An arm._

Body parts. Strange, armored body parts littered the turf just outside Artorius’ home. The Wizard raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing at his cranium, analyzing the situation to deter his alarm. It wasn’t long after he talked himself out of panic that he recognized the armor wrapped around the arms and legs. It looked just like Ink’s.

_A Wheel soldier…_

Fearing the worst, he made a mad dash for the path just beyond the trees, leading to the direction of the woods’ exit. Artorius fumbled around his pockets for any hope of a travel potion and found nothing. It would take him over an hour on foot to reach Brush and Ome – and that was only if he ran as fast as he could.

* * *

“We have a problem,” the pilot informed his companions.

The heavyset man, still too stunned to speak, fixated on Ome who writhed along the floor.

“What’s the matter? Why are we stopping?” asked the gunman.

“That’s the problem,” replied the pilot. “We’re running out of Feed. Fuel leak. Whatever I hit – it busted the reservoir underneath.”

The vehicle slowed to a gradual stop, unable to maintain its momentum. Within seconds, the Sail lowered to the ground, subsequently losing elevation. The pilot switched to a different gear, and then shut down the engine.

“So,” he said, “what the hell do we do now?”

* * *

Beyond the tall grass far behind the Sail’s path, Brush balled up her fist, planting it directly into Spring’s jaw. She straddled him, repeating the offense, wildly cracking him across the face in a ferocious rhythm. The Fore Captain knew how to fight and she knew how to swing a _real_ punch. Regardless, Spring managed to block her fourth and fifth swipe, knocking Brush away with an elbow and a kick.

“You’re not as strong as you used to be,” she wheezed. “Life in Wheel has eaten away at your muscles. You can barely lift your weapons.”

She bounced back like an animal, cornering her prey. Brush pinned Spring to the turf, pressing his hips beneath her legs. She ground her knees into his chest.

“Be fair,” he huffed, struggling against Brush’s might. “The last time we were in this position it was under friendlier terms.”

“Don’t you dare,” she warned.

Spring groped at his belt, discreetly searching. Brush, fixated on keeping him pinned, took little notice. In an instant, he withdrew a blade as long as his own hand and cut Brush across the thigh, swiping deep at her skin. Startled, she grabbed her leg and yelped. Spring knocked her away and Brush tumbled backward, landing on her spine. The Wheel Captain stood and walked over, as she scrambled to back away. No such luck. Spring kicked Brush hard in the face.

As her hands flew up, consoling the pain along the bridge of her nose, he kicked her again in the stomach. Brush gagged from the sudden pressure against her gut. She nearly threw up, heaving inadvertently. In that time, Spring had already kneeled over her, grabbing the back of her hair. Dragging the Fore Captain closer to him, he smiled as she groaned with pain. Spring pressed his knife hard against the skin of her throat.

“Do it already,” she coaxed. Without hesitation, Brush spit in his face.

Knowing better than to let go to wipe away the insult, Spring furiously pushed the blade deeper against her neck. It cut into her skin only a little. He was about to say something just before he plunged it hard into the Fore Captain’s jugular. Before he could utter a word, he was mysteriously knocked away, dropping his knife right in front of Brush. Eyeballing the weapon, she lurched forward and grabbed it.

The Fore Captain reached to her neck, wiping away the blood, confused by what had happened. Looking up, she saw Wall standing over the two of them.

Spring cried out in fear, paralyzed and belly-up like a scared animal. “Demon!”

Brush leapt forth, straddling Spring once again. He paid little attention to her, and instead stared at the tall, black-eyed creature hovering over them. Wall glared at Spring with a quiet rage, intent on killing the one who kidnapped Ome.

Spring broke his gaze with the Sleeper, frantically looking at Brush, realizing she now held the knife to _his _throat. “Not _me_!” he cried. “It’ll devour us _both_! Kill it!”

“There’s a chance we’ll _both_ die,” admitted Brush. “But in this moment – this is my only chance to be sure that _you_ die.” Pointing the knife’s tip downward, she raised it high above her head.

“Stupid bitch!” shouted Spring, his lips stretched wide and distorted with terror. He screamed even louder, opening his mouth in a nightmarish panic. Brush’s hand came crashing down, blade-first, skewering the back of his throat. The blade pierced through Spring’s soft palette, cutting across his tongue. Blood bubbled up between violent chokes, erupting from the pit of his gullet in an overflow of red liquid. As it spilled down the sides of his cheeks, Spring’s arms thrashed aimlessly in front of him until his body went limp in the grass.

Brush released the weapon. Collapsing to the ground, she panted heavily, staring at Spring’s body. She knew that creature was still there, _watching_ her. She didn’t care. The worst of it was over – Captain Spring was officially _dead_.

She looked up at Wall, her eyes scrunched, dripping with sweat as her mouth bobbed open, panting for air. “You want to finish the job?” Brush pumped with adrenaline. “Go on. Do it, demon! Finish the job!”

Wall stared at the Fore Captain for some time. As her gasping and heaving subsided, he turned away, meandering toward the Sail’s path.

“Wait,” muttered Brush.

With his back to her, Wall slowed his pace.

“The human,” she said, her breath slowly returning. “She’s hurt.” Brush struggled to her feet, clutching the wound across her thigh. “They’re headed for Wheel.”

Wall kept his back to her, but nodded. Brush nodded too. As the Sleeper disappeared beyond the sprawl of the tree-lined path, the Captain winced again at the pain in her leg. She tore a shred of linen from a layer of clothing beneath her armor and wrapped it around her injury. Hoping her legs worked well enough to retreat to Fore, she was prepared for the worst. She didn’t care if Mer was aware or not – Spring’s actions were a declaration of war. How far had his men traveled by now? And who held Grehm? Certainly not the Fore district. And Brush knew that once Wheel hears its Captain was killed – battle would be the only response.

By the time she was done considering her plans, she realized the carriage still waited at the Common Ground – right where they had left it. Brush retreated into the foliage. She had every intention of riding the carriage back to Fore and organize an army to bring Wheel to its very knees.

* * *

“Do we really need her anymore?” asked the gunman. Ome writhed on the Sail floor, weak and pale with sweat. Her mouth hung open and drool trickled down the side of her face. She kept a firm hand placed over her gut, suppressing the throb of her wound. Regardless, blood gushed beneath it, hemorrhaging between the crevices of her fingers. Ome opened her mouth to ask for help, but only a choke escaped, followed by red ooze that spilled over her lips.

“That’s disgusting,” replied the pilot. “Can we lose her?”

“Yeah, I’d say it’s about time,” agreed the gunman.

The heavyset man leaned down toward Ome, reaching for her arms. Dragging her across the floor, he swung open the door as she groaned helplessly. Each tug and jostle made her bleed more. He took no care with her, roughly hoisting Ome up and forward so he could easily shove and dump her body right in the dirt.

As the heavyset man lugged her to the door, he discovered something blocking the opening. Peeking out, he saw a naked torso standing beside the Sail, facing him like a brick wall. Suddenly, arms appeared, long and pale, and they reached forward, gently removing Ome from his callous grip. The arms cradled her before gently placing Ome’s body in the grass.

“What the hell?” The heavyset man craned his neck to get a better look.

Curious, the gunman glanced at the pilot next to him, nodding that he lower the glass barrier. As the barrier slid down, the gunman leaned through and asked, “What is it? What’s out there?”

Suddenly, the heavyset man’s body jerked and he kicked his legs wildly, crying out in short, uncivilized spurts. Before the other two could react, something cracked and ripped as his body fell to the floor. Blood pooled around him, seeping into the fabric of his gear.

“Shit!” yelled the pilot. A strange object hit the back of his seat with a thud. The gunman looked down – it was the heavyset man’s head, torn right from his body. Panicked, he screamed as two black eyes charged at him through the Sail’s opening. The eyes towered over a savage, open mouth, barring its teeth.

The gunman grabbed his modrif and attempted to fire on the creature, but the barrel was powerfully knocked away. The modrif discharged, and a bullet pierced the skull of the pilot next to him. The front window splattered with red and the pilot’s head dropped forward, landing with a wet smack against the steering wheel. Terror-stricken, the gunman tried to hurry from his seat, but something powerful gripped him by the torso as he felt his body pulled through the opened glass barrier, jostling him to and fro. The creature moved its arms swiftly as though it wildly unwrapped a tightly packaged gift. The gunman looked down to find his chest cavity burst wide open – his insides strewn about like confetti.

From the trees, birds watched as the Sail continued to rock back and forth with an eerie, unnatural strain against the metal of its skeleton.


	21. Chapter 21

Panting and out of breath, Artorius clumsily stumbled around the circumference of a large pine. He deviated from the main path, cutting across terrain to save time. Unfortunately his shortcut led him through all sorts of unpleasant territory, forcing the Wizard to combine cleverness and stealth with hysterical speed. He knew where the meeting was held, and, luckily for him, he immediately recognized a Fore carriage as it moved in the distance. Feeling a surge of adrenaline, he picked up his pace and raced back to the main path, waving his arms frantically. As he tried flagging the driver, dust kicked up around him, causing him to cough and choke on the consequence of his own ungainliness. In the midst of Artorius’ gags, the inhalation of dirt stifled a “STOP!” which sounded more like a muted “stah–”.

The carriage turned its angle along the path as the sound of hooves grew louder. The horses furiously raced along the dirt, dragging the transport behind them. The sheer noise of it shuddered with bedlam, trailing the hurried beasts. Artorius slowed his wave, realizing the driver didn’t see him. He leapt out of the way as the carriage sped by, and in that moment caught a glimpse of the driver at the reins.

…_Brush?_

He saw no sign of Grehm or Ome. However, his wife had charged by so quickly, Artorius barely had time to assess passengers and cargo. As the Fore coach moved farther and farther away, he found his voice once again, calling out to Brush, screaming her name between bursts of desperate pleas. He assumed she was on her way back to Fore, but why the hurry? The Wizard’s knees were so weak and sore that the very thought of sprinting back the way he came made his thighs ache.

In a fit of defeat, Artorius dropped to the ground and rolled around in the dirt, miserably crying out to anyone and no one.

* * *

“I knew something was wrong,” said Weden. Brush paced back and forth through the doorway of his quarters. She rubbed the back of her neck, pulling the tie out of her hair. It slid right out, already loose from when Spring grabbed hold of her earlier. Weden added, “It hasn’t been that long since you left, but I just had this _feeling_.”

“Look,” said Brush, “we can chat later. I want–” She froze, eyes narrowed.

As the Captain hesitated, Weden glared with concern. Despite Brush’s story, he assumed she’d skipped over the bulk of it. Her report had gaps – he could tell. When Brush returned to the castle, threw open the barracks’ doors, and marched into his quarters, Weden knew she was more severely damaged than her cuts and bruises revealed.

“Tomorrow we assemble the troops,” she said, crossing her arms. “Every last offensive unit. Order the garrison to their posts, none to leave so long as the Queen and citizens remain. Tell citizens to take up arms. We prepare _everyone_.”

“Everyone?”

“_Everyone_.” There was no hesitation in Brush’s tone.

“Do you anticipate retaliation? Should we form a defensive plan?”

“We won’t need it. The garrison knows their role.”

“What about the border guard?”

“Send messengers to them immediately. We need eyes at every pass, every clearing. Mobilize unit C to the area near the Yield. Tell them to convene with the border guards at the river’s bend.”

“With all due respect, Captain, you have no authority to wage war. The Queen will have to command it.”

“She will,” assured Brush. Her brow scrunched above her nose as her voice tensed with hostility. “_She will_.”

* * *

After taking down Spring’s men, Wall strapped Grehm to his back, fully aware that leaving behind such a weapon would be inadvisable. He rushed to Ome’s side as she lay on the ground and carefully lifted her to his lap. Cradling the human had never felt so bittersweet. Wall held her close, kneeling in the grass, her spine draped along his legs. He kept a hand behind her head, elevating it enough to relieve her of discomfort. Ome barely moved, occasionally choking out sputters and sounds that meant nothing. Wall sensed she no longer had any idea what was going on. He felt her gradually slip away as each of her muscles twitched with dampening vigor. She tried to reach a hand to his face, but only lifted it as high as the Sword’s strap that clung to his shoulder.

Wall placed his hand over Ome’s, squeezing it harder than she was able to squeeze back. She didn’t look at him, but stared right through his eyes, numb in her visage. For once, it was Ome’s expression that went black and seemingly empty. Regardless – Wall tenderly looked at her. Despite the blood crusted below her cheeks and the accumulation of sweat along her skin, he still thought she was beautiful. It pained him to watch such a beautiful thing die in his arms.

Ome’s hand no longer squeezed his. It fell limp. Inanimate. Her eyes continued to stare up at Wall, but no longer in need of blinking. It was in that moment, he forced himself to search for her heartbeat, knowing the disappointment that awaited the tips of his fingers. Feeling around Ome’s ribs, pressing firmly against her body – there was no beat to be found.

Wall pulled her close, burying his face against her black hair. He wept. The Sleeper wept for the first time, and so the sensation had overwhelmed him. No demon had ever shed tears. Not _there_ – not in the world of Lot.

Wall pulled away from Ome, still holding her in his arms. He stood, lifting her from the ground, considering his options as to where to take the body. After brief consideration, he decided to head for Hymn Lake. Anywhere else would have been a disservice. She belonged somewhere beautiful, even if to be buried in the sand or swept away by the tide.

And so Wall retraced the path back to the Common Ground, heading into the direction from which he came.

* * *

“I’ll grant you the right to organize the soldiers,” agreed Nim. She shifted in her seat as Brush stood before her in the throne room.

“Good. Thank you,” replied the Captain.

“One condition, however…”

“And that is?”

“I go into battle,” said Nim. “Let me be their Queen one last time. And if Mer should strike me down in the heat of war, let it be so. Let me die there.”

Brush bit her lip, but understood that it _was_ favorable that a monarch to fight beside those willing to die for her kingdom.

“You have the birth-given right to engage in battle, your majesty,” informed Brush. “I will not argue tradition.”

“Good,” nodded Nim. “I plan to lead my people to glory, even if that glory ends with my blood.”

* * *

A figure approached Artorius as he dejectedly rolled around on the ground. The Wizard looked up, confused when he was met with the teary eyed face of a Sleeper. And it wasn’t just any Sleeper, but _that_ Sleeper – the one who called himself _Wall_. Artorius scrambled to his feet and took a step back. He saw what Wall carried in his arms – Ome, bitterly cradled like a stillborn. In a moment of selfishness, he wondered what became of Grehm. But his concern waned as he noticed the strap around the Sleeper’s shoulder, connected to a white blade dangling past his backside.

“What happened?” he asked, forgetting the Sleeper’s case of speechlessness. He felt terrible for Ome, knowing that her death happened because of him. Artorius plainly saw that the demon clutching to her was pained by the loss more than anyone else; such an unlikely grievance from an unlikely source. He felt shamed by Wall. The Wizard was more concerned about the Sword.

As Artorius’ mind scanned over hideous possibilities, Wall inched closer, holding Ome as he stared with an imploring expression. He outstretched his arms, as if begging the Wizard to share the burden. Artorius looked over Ome’s body, puzzled by the gesture, but soon the implication hit him like a train.

“No!” he yelled, raising both hands and backing away. “There’s nothing _I _can do! Please, don’t ask this of me. I can’t _do_ anything for her!”

Wall continued to hold out Ome, locking his eyes with Artorius’.

“Look, I’m not _that_ kind of Wizard. I’m not _that_ well-trained. In my line of magic, what’s dead is _dead_. I’m sorry, demon, but your human is _gone_.”

Artorius braced himself, wondering if the creature would erupt in a rage, angered by the incompetence of a hack Wizard. But Wall just stood there, hurt and rejected – more sad than anything else. No anger. No rage.

And so, the Wizard thought it a prime opportunity to claim what was once his. “I’m sorry, I really am. I know you were fond of her. Something terrible has obviously happened. And I need to find out what, because there’s someone I, too, must protect. I must find my _wife_.” Artorius paused, debating if whether or not he should ask his next question. “But if you could – may I take back that Sword?” He pointed to the blade strapped to Wall’s back. “I see that you’ve brought it along. Please… let me have it.”

In a split second, Artorius found himself lifted from the soil, slamming into a tall, rotted tree trunk that cracked against his weight. The bark loosened and fell on his head, smacking him hard on the skull. He wasn’t terribly hurt, but startled nonetheless. His request for Grehm had been denied. Wall turned his back on Artorius and walked away from the Common Ground.

The Wizard rubbed his head and stood. He rushed after the Sleeper, then buckled to his knees and cried out with desperation. “Demon! That blade belongs to me! _Me_! Do you hear?!”

Wall ignored Artorius and continued on his way. If the Wizard was brave enough to stop him with magic – so be it. He was unafraid.

But Artorius didn’t stop him – he simply continued to yell. “If what I know of Sleepers is the truth, then the solution is _you_! The only one who can help Ome would be _you_!” Artorius’ voice faltered as he begged the return of Dashosgrehm.

Wall continued onward. He held Ome tight, wishing he could feel her heartbeat once again. Mapping his steps to the singing lake, he made his way across the foliage, past the trees. As he stepped deeper into the woods, he looked down at her, lamenting such wasted humanity – wasted beauty.

Artorius’ assumption was correct. If anyone could help Ome, it had to be Wall. The Sleeper contemplated the Wizard’s words, understanding _exactly_ what the fool meant, and despising him for bringing it to light.

Wall let the path guide him deeper, until he could travel no farther.

* * *

Artorius transported himself into a valley not far from the Fore district. As his body took form from nothing, he immediately felt a cold sensation, and realized he had materialized in the shallow water of a creek. He groaned at his soaked boots and socks. As he climbed out of the creek, he raised the end of his cloak to keep it dry and checked that the stock of potions attached to his belt had not shattered.

_Well, that didn’t work out so well_…

Artorius had decided transporting too close to the district would undoubtedly alert the border guards, and after the failed treaty, no strangers would be allowed to roam the woods. Instead, he chose a remote valley between guard posts, knowing it was his best chance of sneaking his way to the city undetected.

As he climbed the hill out of the valley, he began to think about Brush and feared the worst. No doubt she was alive, but in what condition? After seeing Ome lifeless in Wall’s arms, he couldn’t bear the thought of Brush in the same position. He had to make sure she was alright first, then he’d worry about Grehm. All else was trivial.

His legs ached as he climbed the endless hill. Next time, he thought, he’d choose higher ground. His feet began to swell as his toes rubbed against the wet interior of his boots. The Wizard afforded no time to rest, though, knowing that every minute was valuable.

“Stop, traveler!” A voice erupted from the trees, just behind Artorius.

_Shit._ He raised his hands in surrender and turned to meet his captor. Perched in the trees above were three Fore rangers with bowstrings pulled, their arrows locked onto the Wizard. There was a rustling behind him, and he sensed at least two other figures approaching from up the hill.

Artorius cleared his throat. “I mean no harm.”

“You’ve picked a bad time to wander these woods, outcast,” the lead ranger spoke in a hushed tone. “Slowly remove your cloak and drop all weapons.”

Finding himself surrounded, Artorius did as instructed. He untied his cloak and set a small hunting dagger on the ground next to it. He stood with hands raised, trying to remember the order and placement of the potions on his belt.

A ranger, high in the trees, pointed to the potions. “Drop the bottles.”

“These?” Artorius feigned ignorance. “This is medicine. For back pain. I can’t go without–”

“–_Drop_ the bottles,” repeated another ranger, pressing the tip of a sword into the Wizard’s back.

Artorius complied, laughing uncomfortably. “Nothing escapes Fore rangers, eh? No wonder you guys are considered the best in the district.”

“Drop the flattery, too,” said the lead ranger. He nodded to his men. “Bind his hands from gestures of any kind – waving, flicking, pointing. Wrap them good and tight. He knows plenty of magic without potions.”

Artorius grew pale and quickly dismissed several ideas for escape. Rangers descended from the trees and hill, surrounding him with weapons drawn. Two volunteers wrapped his hands in tight cloth strips, cutting the circulation in his wrists. They lowered Artorius to his knees while the others sifted through his belongings.

“You’ve certainly done your research on me.” The Wizard grinned.

“Captain Brush has written a very detailed profile on you and your abilities,” replied the leader. “It comes as standard reading.”

“Then you’ll know I’m not your enemy. I’m not with Wheel.”

The rangers hoisted him to his feet, marching him up the hill towards the city. Despite all predicaments, Artorius still groaned at the sensation of his wet feet squishing inside his boots.

“Right,” smirked the lead ranger. “Not a Wheel sympathizer? We’ll take your word for it – of course! Especially on today of all days.” The others roared with laughter.

“I know something happened!” Artorius shouted. “But I’m not with Wheel! Please, let me see Brush! I need to know she’s alright.”

The lead ranger stopped his squad. He turned to Artorius and grabbed him by the throat. “There’s already been one attempt on our Captain’s life. I’ll be damned if another happens on my watch. You’re not going _anywhere_ near Brush.” He released Artorius’ throat and turned back toward the path.

The Wizard choked and stumbled as the rangers quickened their uphill pace. The path reached the top of the hill and turned south away from the city. As they marched, Artorius was silent, listening in as the others talked. Their spirits were high and excited. Twice, he heard the word “invasion”, and wondered if it had really come to such measures.

His doubts faded as they reached a road that circled just outside Fore. The road bustled with swordsmen and archers, gathering supplies and forming squads. Hundreds of men and women took up arms and congregated in a clearing just outside the city limits.

The rangers marched farther away and finally stopped at their destination – an outpost built into the base of a massive tree trunk. They led Artorius underground to a cell and promptly threw him in. Satisfied that the Wizard was no longer a threat, the rangers sealed the cell and called three outpost guards to keep watch.

Artorius sat cross-legged, staring through the bars of his prison. He couldn’t stop picturing Ome’s lifeless body. Only in _his_ head, it was Brush who lay bruised and bleeding. He couldn’t shake the image and began to tremble. He had to find his wife. From the talk of the rangers – she was fine. But from the talk of “invasion” – how long would that last? Determined, he began to pick at the threads of the cloth bound to his hands.

The guards assigned to watch him paid little attention. Their minds were on sharpening their weapons and readying their gear. Like every able-bodied soldier in the district, they thought of the coming morning, when Fore would at last launch its attack on Wheel. It was destined, they believed, to be their district’s finest moment. And so not one of them noticed later in the night when the imprisoned Wizard managed to free his hands, securing his first step toward preventing his wife from doing something utterly insane.

* * *

The Fore military outmanned Wheel’s by thousands. Through simple calculation, the numbers were intimidating. Should the outcome of triumph boil down to sheer manpower, Fore would undoubtedly emerge as victorious. But as morning broke, and Weden imagined his soldiers marching head-on toward Wheel’s war machines, his palms nervously began to sweat.

Mobilizing the enlisted soldiers was a simple enough task – something they trained for since the schism. And at the Captain’s command, with the Queen’s approval, Weden sent priority deployment to all other Lieutenants. They were to march on Wheel within the hour.

Addressing the castle garrison was another matter. The orders were to remain firm at their posts, with the whole of the city as their first priority. Sending those orders to all castle guards was no easy task, however. Under Captain Brush, only one man commanded the garrison, Deputy Captain Leaf. When tension between the districts rose and constant military presence was required, the local law enforcement suddenly became soldiers in the Queen’s army, whether they liked it or not. At Weden’s command, Leaf ran door to door, alerting off-duty guards that _war_ was coming.

At the Clip Woods’ edge, patrolling scouts received word quickly that the Queen’s attack was to be sharp and precise. Cloaked and armed, the border guard set up stations along every road, river, and valley. They combed the land just beyond Fore, searching for traveling Yoth from either district. The border guard was to alert straggling Fore citizens of the impending attack – then get them to safety. Under _strict_ orders, and by any means necessary, they were to capture and detain traveling Wheel citizens, preventing their possible return home.

When Captain Brush rendezvoused with her troops, her eyes scanned across the number of citizens who had taken up arms and stood beside her soldiers. She was overwhelmed. Groups upon groups of strong men and women congregated right beside their protectors. They carried farming tools, torches, and hunting knives – anything to strike a blow at their enemy.

“I didn’t realize there would be such a response from the townspeople,” said Brush.

At her side, Weden smiled. “After word got around regarding what happened – and trust me it got around _fast_ – people flooded the barracks, demanding weapons and arms. Many of them brought their own. And I’ve heard there are plenty more willing to put their lives on the line and fight.”

“Our people are truly impressive, aren’t they?” said Brush, proudly. “They love their city. They’ll fight for their families and homes. I don’t think I’ve ever felt closer to them – or more understood. “This,” she gestured to the citizens standing beside the soldiers, “is something worth fighting for.”

“Even so,” said Weden, “bringing down Wheel won’t rid us of the Sleepers.”

“I know that,” replied Brush. “But we’ll have one less enemy when it’s over. One less thing to conquer and kill us.”

The castle gates opened as the Queen’s personal guards – sixteen soldiers in glistening, white armor – rode out on horses. The foremost soldier carried the Fore district banner, flowing in the breeze. Behind the guards rode Nim, aboard a golden battle chariot, tipped with white and yellow flags along the back, steered by her top coachmen. The chariot was pulled by four white horses decorated with golden armor and a variety of flowers woven into their manes. The Queen’s broad, fanned crown peaked high above the fanciful display before her.

“It’s time,” Weden muttered.

Brush sighed, then nodded.

Nim’s chariot rolled up alongside them. “I am ready. Move them out.” Brush glanced up at her Queen and bowed her head in obedience.

Turning to the soldiers, Brush raised her sword to the clouds above. She bellowed a command, loud and strong, shaking the recruits from their motionless feet, ordering them to follow their Queen.

…To storm the city of Wheel.


	22. Chapter 22

Mer moved his pen carefully across the parchment, taking a moment to delicately select every word. After penning half a page he read it over, crinkled his nose, and crumpled the paper. The King accessed a fresh piece, dipped his quill, and started over. No matter how much wasted effort he put forth, he made sure to have a completed letter by the end of each day. Sadly, Mer felt the letters were pointless. He never received a reply. But, despite the lack of correspondence, he continued to write, rephrasing words once crumpled and discarded.

“Your majesty!” shouted a guard, bursting into the study.

Startled, the King dropped his quill. “Sweet damnation! What is it?”

“An _attack_, sire! Fore has launched an attack!”

“What?!” Mer bellowed, jumping to his feet. “Are you certain? We’ve given no provocation!”

“I’m certain, sire! We received no word from the border patrol this morning, and our scouts report the Clip outposts were sacked within the hour. We’re under _attack_!”

The guard was a frantic, youthful lad. Mer realized he barely knew what to do, even in the King’s presence. “Soldier,” said the King, “_where_ is your Captain?”

“Gone, Majesty! Spring never reported in. We can’t locate him!”

Something did _not_ bode well. Mer contemplated the warnings over the years – the jealous whispers from Artorius, the snide remarks from Nim. How they both warned him of putting trust where it was least deserved. How they disapproved of Spring. And now, in a possible moment of war, Mer’s Captain was nowhere to be found?

_Never reported in._

“Very well,” nodded the King. “Report to your Lieutenants. Tell them to come to me. Direct the Engineers to their machines.”

The young recruit trembled. “_Me_, sir?”

“Yes. _You_. I need you to spread word. Do not be nervous that your Captain is missing. You still have a _King_. Iwill lead the counterstrike in Spring’s absence. Tell every able-bodied soldier to meet at the fortress.”

* * *

Under camouflage and twisted armored boughs, the Fore army sped through the Clip Woods. From a distance, the trees, themselves, seemed to move with the ferocity of a vengeful mob. Yoth took advantage of their bond to the land, applying it to many battles over countless centuries. But their tactics now faced an impressive challenge: an enemy of the same ancestor – other Yoth. And though Wheel outposts fell quickly and quietly, Nim predicted the word would spread fast to Mer’s fortress that the woods were _alive_ with the march of enemy feet.

Before long, the front line had the city of Wheel within its sights. At the edge of the woods, not yet ready to expose their position, Fore soldiers stood against the trees and tall grass, peering at the fire. Smoke billowed in the morning light, wafting across the ambit of the sun like a parched ghost. Most of the recruits had never seen Wheel, but many heard stories of its spire-like chimneys and fiery Hearth-guards. They stared at the mechanical city with wonder, awaiting the Queen’s command.

Nim spent no time admiring Wheel. She had no interest in preserving the memory of its hellish appearance. The spires and smoke only aggravated her resentment. She assembled Brush, Weden, and squad leaders for each division of the army.

“Are you confident in your plan, Captain?” Nim asked.

“Yes,” replied Brush, “The advantage is ours with or without Grehm.” She nodded to Weden, who responded with a salute.

“Very well, commence with the attack,” ordered Nim. Weden nodded, moving off from the front line, feeling fear and excitement for the hours to come. The Queen gave the command for her archers to advance, and as they stepped into the open, they released a hail of arrows over the fortress walls.

Immediately, shouts erupted within the city. From the towers, several strange mechanical weapons responded by firing pellets and shards of glass. Though Wheel wasn’t totally unprepared, Nim understood that her hasty offensive proved effective.

Alarms rang out from every end of the fortress. Blaring, mechanical horns bellowed across the valley. Wheel combatants fell from up high, pierced by the archers’ assault. As the bowmen advanced, shield carriers guarded them from the onslaught of missiles. As the Wheel retaliation grew, Fore soldiers began to fall. Some were struck by tiny balls of metal that exploded in a discharge of violent, bright sparks. Others were electrocuted as strange, heavy beads penetrated their armor. The strength Wheel soldiers lacked in numbers, they compensated in their bizarre, yet remarkable, artillery.

Still under the cover of trees, Brush prepared a squad to maneuver the battering ram. Her plan was to transport it to the front gate. It rolled forth on a heavy support structure, wrapped with rope and saddled on either side with massive, wooden beams. Though the gates were made of iron, there were obvious weak spots from structural decay. They had a chance to smash it to the ground.

Eager to join the front line, Brush instructed her men to surround the ram, grabbing every hitch. She felt a rumble beneath her feet and wondered if Mer had assembled his war machines. But at that moment, a young, female soldier pointed to the ground and shrieked. Brush turned. The soldier pointed at the Yield, not far from their position. To Brush’s horror she saw fingers and hands emerge from the great crack – slowly, but surely. The army’s activity above must have awakened the Sleepers below. Sighing, the Captain had to keep her cool to properly lead her recruits. What the Sleepers chose to do on the battlefield _would_ undoubtedly affect Fore, but if that fortress came down, then Wheel would also be rendered vulnerable.

“Keep your position!” she ordered. “On my command! Ready the attack and _knock down_ that gate!”

* * *

“We have just under an hour to get inside those walls,” Weden explained as he signaled Sergeants Sprig, Cane, and Talon to follow him deep into the northern valley. “Once the ram penetrates the gate, Brush will pull back troops, making the enemy think we’re regrouping to storm the city. By that point, the four of us will have disabled the fuel source for their cannons.”

“And how exactly will we do that?” asked Sergeant Talon. “We don’t know anything about their defenses.”

“We have a secret weapon.” Weden grinned, pointing to a long cylindrical case strapped to his back. “But to use it, we must first get inside, _unnoticed_.”

The small unit dove into the cover of Clip Woods and followed a narrow stream to the bottom of the valley. They pressed on for a few minutes until Weden turned their direction sharply up the steep slope. He stopped a moment, kneeling to the ground, sticking his fingers in the mud. Removing them, his fingers were black and slick, covered with a strange residue. He pointed to a ridge above where more of the black slime covered a small cave entrance. “That’s where we’re headed,” ordered Weden, climbing higher with his Sergeants in tow.

Reaching the entrance, they traveled through the tunnel in darkness. Weden warned them not to light any torches. “The black scum catches fire easily.” Several yards into the tunnel, he stopped near a ladder that ascended into the ceiling. The ladder was soiled and slippery, covered in the same Feed residue that surrounded him and his men.

Weden motioned for the others to remain silent as he climbed. Reaching the top, he slowly opened a hatch above and looked around. After a moment, he signaled for his Sergeants to follow. Free of the tunnel, they each lit torches, peering cautiously at their surroundings.

“What is this place?” asked Talon.

“I bet it’s one of their installations – where they make that black sewage,” answered Sprig.

“Most likely,” agreed Weden. “We’re just underneath the refinery sector of the city.” He took the cylindrical case from his back, opened it, and produced several pieces of parchment. They were maps and diagrams of the Wheel district.

Blinking his eyes, Sprig could barely believe what he saw. “How did you get _these_?”

Weden smiled. “You can thank the exiled Wizard. We found it in his cottage when searching for the human. Gives us the upper hand.”

As Cane paged through the documents he said, “Not just maps but diagrams and blueprints for their weapons. Are these confirmed to be authentic?”

“These are dangerous instructions to hold on to,” warned Talon.

Weden nodded. “Yes. Your Queen worked hard to keep this machinery from infecting our land. Naturally, we’ve made some sacrifices, but I doubt we’d let ourselves fall as far as Wheel.” He knelt down, setting a rolled diagram on the ground. Smoothing it flat, Weden traced it with his finger as he talked. “Their large weapons work like this. They’re chained together by thin pieces of metal. Those chains carry power to the weapons. If we cut a chain, that weapon ceases to fire.”

“But there are dozens of cannons,” said Cane. “So it’ll do us no good to target them.”

“Exactly,” Weden replied, “We’ll follow the chains to their opposite ends. We have reason to believe they’re all webbed together and have one source. If we sever the big chain, they’ll lose all their cannons at once. Maybe more.”

“And how can we trust this information?” asked Sprig. “We’ve never seen their weapons up close.”

“Your Queen,” Weden smiled, “has been witness to things from other worlds. She confirmed this. The machines are all linked to a power source. _This_ is how the human world works – and so does Wheel.”

“Well,” said Talon, nodding, “I commend her for keeping our city free of such defilement.”

“Let’s move quickly,” said Weden, “in the name of Queen Nim – for _all_ of Fore!”

* * *

Mer’s war machines tore through city streets, amassing at the walls of the Wheel district. Dozens of Lieutenants who had never seen battle before stood shocked, trying to direct orders. The doors to the main entrance bulged with impact. The Wheel army expected a breach was imminent.

Rather than assign a new Captain, Mer commanded each Lieutenant to step up and lead their own squadrons. Every man and woman was to stand their ground, defend their corner of the city, and keep the Fore soldiers from entering.

“At any cost!” reminded the Lieutenants. Their troops saluted in agreement.

“We don’t know why they have come!” Mer shouted to the soldiers, “But they will not take our home! You followed me here because you trusted me! You trusted my inventions! I ask you to rely on that trust _now_! Modrifs and cannons were built not to destroy their lives, but to sustain our own! Today this technology will prove itself! Do not put yourself in harm’s way! Let the war machines and barricades take blows! On this day, _we_ will survive!”

* * *

Nim’s army charged forth with the battering ram, colliding against the main gate. It backed up to charge once more. The iron bulged inward, weakened by the impact. Brush gave another signal to smash it, and the soldiers moved in with a third strike. A hole opened up in the metal as Fore continued to ram the wall and widen the gap, smashing their way through.

Brush heard the screams of her guards all around. Some were struck down by the blasts of Wheel’s mysterious weapons, fired from high above the fortress. Others were thrown back to the tree line by pulsing tower cannons.

“Those cannons will soon cease firing,” Brush said to her supporting officers, “Weden will cut off their power source. When the firing stops, command all forces to charge the gate. They’ll only have their modrifs to defend them.”

“What about their war machines?” asked a bleeding Corporal.

“They’re powerful,” Brush reasoned, “And they _will_ take lives. But on foot, we’re faster and can maneuver better. Once inside the city, avoid the streets. Take to the walls and buildings. They’ll be expecting us to follow the obvious routes.”

At that moment, a soldier of Wheel fired down from above. The blast knocked Brush to the ground, breaking both of her shoulders. She wriggled in the mud, crying out in pain, screaming intensely above the riot of noise surrounding the onslaught. Through all the commotion, she spotted the assailing gunman – he was perched high, leaning beyond the peak of the fortress. The Captain was still locked in his aim. The soldier raised his modrif, steadying it from afar, pointing it right at her. Horrified, she braced herself for a painful death. He pulled the trigger and an eruption blew forth, propelling something through the air like a fiery missile.

A wave of natural energy surrounded Brush, deflecting the blast. Confused, she cocked her head back to get a look at its source. _Artorius_. He stood behind her with a hand raised, casting off magic that kept her safe from harm.

“I’m getting you out of here!” he yelled. “_Now_!” He reached down, lifted his wife, and slung her over his shoulder. She screamed in agony. Regardless, Artorius’ other hand remained up, maintaining the protective ward, shielding them from harm. He backed away, retreating across the battlefield as Brush kicked and shouted, reminding him that she was the _Captain_ and could not abandon her post.

“This is punishable by death! _My_ death!” she raged. “Take me back!”

“No,” he argued. “You’re hurt. You’re not going back. We’re leaving. Look at it this way – you’re not retreating. I’m absconding with you. Otherwise, you’re going to die.”

“To hell with that!” cried Brush. “How could you interfere like this?”

As he backed up, ignoring his wife’s protests, Artorius pulled out a vial and took a quick sip. He attempted to force the liquid to her lips, but Brush spat and kicked, cursing her husband and his foolishness.

“Please, I don’t want to lose you,” he begged with quiet endeavor. Brush calmed herself, panting heavily from her struggle. She said nothing more. The second time Artorius raised the vial to her lips, the Captain allowed the liquid to pass her tongue. The Wizard held tight to his wife as the magic whisked them back to his cottage.

The surrounding Corporals who had witnessed the interaction shook their heads in confusion. Now without a Captain, and separated from Weden who breached the city walls, they scrambled to determine the Queen’s location. Someone had to inform her of Brush’s disappearance.

Before they arrived to a conclusion, one officer raised his head to the sky. “Look!” she cried, “The cannons have stopped! And the smoke is clearing!” Sure enough, the pulsing cannons hung lifeless, firing no more, and the billowing Hearth-guards ceased blasting flames into the air. The sky surrounding Wheel grew eerily still.

* * *

Inside the city walls, Mer noticed the stillness from his command post. He looked to the towers and buildings wondering what had transgressed. From outside the city, shouts rose from the Fore army. They began their charge now that the cannons were dead.

“My liege!” shouted a soldier at Mer’s side. “Your orders? Our cannons have been disabled!”

“No,” Mer breathed heavily, “I’m not worried about the cannons. It’s–” He paused, ears perked. The King raced toward the nearest stairs, ascending to the tower heights. Behind him, several guards hastily followed, awaiting his command. Mer stopped at a window overlooking the battlefield.

“Sire! Avoid the opening!” cried a young soldier. “They’ll target you from there!”

“We have dire concerns ahead of us.” Mer spoke with dread. “Yes,” he continued, “the cannons are down, but now so are the Hearth-guards.”

The King gazed out the window, his eyes chillingly fixed on a spot in the distance.

“Look,” he said, pointing to where the Yield could be seen. From it, hundreds of Sleepers, now alert to the vanished fire, took to the skies. Mer looked upon both armies with pity. He knew that in a matter of minutes, they’d be facing a terror far worse than war. Those soldiers of Fore, convinced they have taken the city, will not see the Sleepers approaching.


	23. Chapter 23

As the horde of Sleepers descended upon the battlefield, they made no distinction between the soldiers of Wheel and Fore. The creatures swarmed so quickly, with such vicious haste, that neither army had time to respond. Regrouping was out of the question. Sleepers folded their wings mid-air, plummeting like torpedoes onto the heads of unsuspecting warriors.

The soldiers were slow, easy targets, weighed down by their armor. The protective steel wrapped around their bodies proved to be an unfortunate disadvantage. The armor was nothing more than a minor inconvenience for the Sleepers. Scores of demons wrapped their legs around their targets, peeling away at the metal. The creatures broke away the plate as if the soldiers were shellfish, revealing the delicacy of weak flesh beneath. Other Sleepers smashed Yoth fighters against rocks, bending the steel breastplates into rows of cracked ribs, trapping victims inside their own twisted armor. Bowmen and rangers only wore mail, which was as equally as unlucky. The links in the chain made them easier to grasp and lift. Beneath the ambush of Sleepers, the archers were the first to be lifted high in the air, split in half, then released. Limbs and gore showered down from above, terrorizing the surviving infantry below.

For the first few minutes, the Sleepers ravaged without meeting resistance, both armies caught unaware. Only Mer, with his troops perched on the city walls, witnessed the sheer obscenity of the assault. The King watched in horror, wondering how they lost power to the cannons and Hearth-guards.

“We must set fires in place of the Hearth-guards!” he ordered. “Assemble pyres! Wood from the forest, waste from the factories – anything!” His men hurried away in search of combustibles.

Outside the city walls, Queen Nim froze, paralyzed by the carnage before her. Men and women were scattered along the ground, but only in pieces. She turned to the direction of the Yield, and though she could not see it over the trees, Nim wondered if it grew, stretching the chasm so far along the depths that each unholy emergence quadrupled in strength. The Queen’s ears rang with deafened terror as the world around her slowed to a crawl. Bodies soared through the air like delicate feathers drenched in blood.

As her soldiers failed to maintain their footing, she turned again toward the city walls. As she did, her eyes glanced upward, spotting a female Sleeper flying above. Its arms were wrapped tightly around a dying soldier who was mesmerized by the demon. He was unable to struggle, gazing into its stare. The Sleeper’s mouth opened, almost in a smile, revealing hungry teeth. The spellbound soldier leaned in for a kiss. The Sleeper pressed its lips forward, returning the gesture. Nim watched as the creature and soldier hovered, frozen in a moment of innocent romance. But soon enough the Sleeper’s kiss transformed into a wide bite as it pulled back its head, tearing away the lips and cheeks of the man in its arms. His face was completely ripped off, leaving behind a skinless expression, poised in a horrific grin of naked, bleeding teeth.

Nim screamed, raising a hand to her mouth, stifling a sudden wave of nausea. Furious, she snapped out of it, catching sight of Mer who moved frantically across the top of the city wall. Now, with her enemy in sight, the Queen slowly walked toward the gate, stepping carefully over bodies that paved the way before her. Nim bent down and picked up the sword of a fallen warrior. With it, she kept the demons at a distance as they descended. Nim clenched her teeth and stood firm, warding them off. Without meeting their seductive gaze, the Queen’s eyes remained fixed on Mer as she approached the city gate.

* * *

As he neared the shore, the lake sang to Wall. Voices rose, beckoning him closer. However, he couldn’t hear them above his fixation on the lifeless woman in his arms. He lowered Ome to the lakeshore, resting her body in the sand. Removing Grehm from his shoulder, he laid it beside her. He reached a hand to her cheek, brushing the hair from her eyes. Moving closer, he positioned himself right alongside her body, his face but an inch from her ear.

Wall slid his hand across Ome’s chest, feeling for the texture of her ribs. He kept it pressed against the cold flesh above her heart, quietly broken by the stillness inside. He stared at her with a sad tinge to his placid expression. Her chest felt stiff and empty, she was no longer the friend he knew. Wall contemplated his options, conflicted by a decision that he tried desperately to avoid.

_But avoid it no more…_

The Sleeper moved closer, his lips barely touched the auricle of Ome’s ear. It seemed as though he would kiss it, but instead, he did something entirely unexpected.

“Ome,” he uttered in an undefiled breath. Wall spoke and his voice was as deep as the lake, yet as fluid as trickling water. “Come back to me. _Live_.”

He tilted his head away from her ear, moving closer to Ome’s mouth. Wall parted his lips, settling them upon hers, kissing the human as deeply as he had always wanted. Wall’s hand remained above her ribs, awaiting the signal that her body lived once again. Sure enough that solitary beat, followed by a counter beat, produced a lively ebb and flow. Wall continued to kiss Ome, and in that time the wound healed like magic as her blood faded into flesh and her flesh became whole.

He dropped his hand from her chest, and hugged Ome firmly, drawing her near. Wall kissed the woman again, firm and passionate, until the familiar grip of an arm wrapped around his neck, embracing the Sleeper in a subtle moment. Ome’s mouth began to move, and she returned the kiss, fluttering her eyes open to the sight of Wall. Then she closed them again, losing herself in the cradle of his arms.

The two sprawled along the shoreline, locked together between smooth limbs and wet sand. To Ome, the Sleeper’s tongue had a familiar taste, like warm honey and damp flowers. And to Wall the woman was unfamiliar – she tasted of creation, like an old world native to clay and clouds. Ome’s lips were terrestrial, like pottery and soil. Wall had never tasted something so natural and unrefined. He pulled her closer, hoping to linger a bit, knowing what was to come next.

Eventually, Ome pulled away to get a look at Wall’s face. And in return, he smiled down at her, his arms still locked around her body. She was there – she was _his_.

“Ome?” he said, his voice as smooth as dust.

Confused, she blinked. Then Ome smiled. “Yes. You – you can _talk_?”

Wall was elated to see her alive once again. And to speak for the first time in his life – to speak to _her_. “It is a curse,” he explained, his voice soft, but his speech wooden. The Sleeper remorsefully closed his eyes, releasing his grasp on Ome. He scooted away from her and knelt in the sand.

She sat up, staring, dissatisfied with his cryptic explanation. “A curse?” she asked. He behaved strangely. “Wall,” she continued, “what’s the _matter_?”

“Sleepers are not permitted to speak,” he said. “It is forbidden.”

“By _who_? Why?”

“That does not matter,” he replied. “It has always been. We are forbidden to speak.”

“But you _are_ speaking,” said Ome.

“Yes,” replied Wall. “Our words are too powerful. Even now I must choose them carefully. But it will not last, and for _that_ I am sorry.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” asked Ome, rushing closer. She knelt beside him in the sand.

Wall looked to the sky, scanning the horizon, then looked back at Ome. He tenderly reached his hand to her face. “I love you.” He gripped her hand, holding it to his cheek. “Do not forget me.” As those last words escaped his lips, Wall went rigid and his body shook.

“What’s happening?” asked Ome. He didn’t answer. The Sleeper doubled over, still gripping her hand. His arms and chest convulsed violently until a strange crackle erupted from his skin. Wall froze, as if paralyzed in the sand, and his ashen flesh turned gray and hard, washing across him in a flood of pain. He didn’t fight it, but he cried out for Ome. She cried back, demanding to know what was happening.

A gray hue traipsed along Wall’s legs, moving to his abdomen, then higher and higher. When the strange coloration reached his hand, Ome felt the substance – it was like stone. The Sleeper was turning to _stone_.

“Wall!” she screamed. Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t understand what was happening. All the while, he looked at Ome as if frozen in an intoxicated thought. He thought of her as his life drained away. Ome knew he was dying and began to cry, weeping against the shrieks of the birds high above, against the swelling voices of the lake. Before the stone entirely claimed Wall, as it inched its way above his neck, she looked into his dark eyes and said, “_I love you too_.”

The voices of the lake died down. All fell quiet. Wall was motionless, kneeling in the sand as a statue. His arms stretched out like a tragic angel, reaching for Ome, imploring her affection. Frozen in a final moment of devotion, his expression held no betrayal. He gave his life for the human.

Ome touched Wall’s face, tracing his cheeks with a shaken hand. She sobbed ungracefully, losing control of herself within a moment of paralyzing grief. Piecing together memories of the creature who came to be her friend, Ome remembered something – just from the night before. She wiped away her tears and reached into her sweatshirt’s neckline, grabbing lace and metal. The amulet. She pulled it out. It was the gift Wall brought to her the night before the meeting. Ome had almost forgotten about it. And as she rubbed away tears, squinting at the jewelry in her hand, she realized something about it had changed. Something was different.

It was glowing.

* * *

The Sleepers were relentless in their attack. For what seemed like an eternity, both armies ignored one another to battle their common foe. With both lead Captains missing, and dismembered body parts strewn across the ground, few soldiers could muster the courage to form an effective counter-strike against the demons; the majority of them had scattered too far from their original platoons.

Regardless, fear subsided for a small handful of the bravest men and women who served either district. They sought one another out, surveying the battlefield. Each called for surrender in an attempt to petition for assistance. And somewhere, beneath the avian swarm of unsanctified monstrosity, regiments from both districts made peace and regrouped. After a brief inquiry as to who were the commanding officers, squadrons of soldiers formed, watching one another’s backs to avoid Sleeper onslaught.

Fore and Wheel soldiers fought back in groups, eventually taking down three troublesome creatures. Each group lost a soldier or two in the process, but compared to the carnage from earlier, the damage was surprisingly meager. The Wheel city garrison hurried to stack pyres – anything that could burn in place of the Hearth-guards. Before long, small fires blazed and Sleepers hastened to avoid vast sections of the battlement.

Nim trudged on, plodding across the battlefield, her eyes glued to Mer who commanded his troops from the wall. On that day, each soldier’s death was bound to weigh on the her conscience. Regardless, she brandished her weapon and marched along, ready to face her estranged husband. To the Queen’s misunderstanding, she harped on the King’s treacherous arrangement of Brush’s abduction. How incorrectly she believed he feigned an agreement to write up a peace treaty. For Mer to plan such a thing after so many years without incident, it had Nim twisted up inside. She refused to stop her assault until the King’s life was put to a long overdue end.

Twice did Sleepers attempt to attack Nim, and each time she swung that rusted sword, imbued with emblems of the Wheel district. Her own enemy’s weapon – knocking demons from the air. Fueled by rage, the Queen showed no fear as the creatures swooped. She jabbed at their breasts and slashed at their wings without so much as a slip in her pace.

When Nim finally reached the wall, she called out to Mer. “You false-hearted _snake_! Face me! Have you no courage to best me without deception?” Several archers, unscathed by the Sleeper attack, fired to the top of the battlement. As each arrow neared Mer, he batted them away with a puff of smoke.

“What have you done!?” the King bellowed to his wife. “You have doomed us all! Is _this_ what you want?”

“You have played on my emotions for far too long, husband!” cried the Queen. Behind her, a squad of swordsmen rushed to her aid. They fended off the remaining Sleepers attempting to snatch her from the fortress grounds.

Dissuaded by the Queen’s guards, the Sleepers soared over the city walls, no longer interested in the soldiers surrounding the fortress. Swarms of demons flew over the residential district as Yoth cowered in their homes. The sound of battle was what initially drove families to safety indoors, but what paralyzed them with terror was the sight of winged, bloodied beasts rocketing through the skies. Beyond that, the sight of black eyes scanning city streets for victims was nothing short of a nightmare.

It was too late for most citizens – the ones who hadn’t made it indoors. No official word had spread about the failing of Hearth-guards, and so numerous pedestrians were wrenched from the streets in a gruesome display of an aerial tug-of-war. Birdlike, the Sleepers fought over their prey, pulling at fingers and arms, legs and heads, until victims were no longer whole. Screams flooded the district – even Sails were abandoned as people madly rushed for cover.

“The power lines must be reconnected!” Mer ordered his soldiers. “Or else not a soul will survive!” A sizeable group of the King’s finest hurried to the city’s industrial sector to locate the problem. By that point, Nim’s unit reached the upper battlement, trekking down the wall to Mer’s position. A handful of Wheel soldiers offered to stand with their King, but Mer begged them to fend for the city. “Fuel the pyres!” he ordered. “Guard the people! There are families down there! I can stand my ground.”

Three of Nim’s swordsmen charged the King with weapons drawn, but Mer threw them from the wall with a wave of his hand. As he did, he cringed, glancing to see if they had survived. “I never imagined I’d witness a full-scale war with Fore,” he said bitterly to his Queen.

“So you say!” Nim scoffed as she approached. “You deploy war-machines and arm your soldiers with foul contraptions!” She huffed, swinging her sword. “Those abominations did not sprout overnight!”

“We defend ourselves from the Sleepers!” Mer begged as he dodged her blade.

“You built an industry out of war and treachery! Now both enemies have come to call!” Nim raised her blade high above her head with a desperate cry.

“The Sleepers will not cease! They will destroy every one of us! We can stop them!” begged Mer. He raised his hand, ready to deflect the Queen’s attack. He had no choice but to defend himself, though he could not bear the thought of ending Nim’s life.

“More treacherous lies!” The Queen spat in Mer’s face. “Villain!” She swung her weapon again, narrowly missing his head. The sword sliced through the air with a thunderous swoop, briefly unbalancing Nim. She steadied herself, standing all too close to Mer for the first time in years. “Fore will not be fooled _again_ with your vile peace negotiations!”

“What treachery do you mean? I have not deceived you! When have I made a fool of you? When have I violated _any_ negotiation?”

“Your _Captain_!” growled Nim. “Spring laid a trap! Brush was–”

“–Spring!” Mer exclaimed. “He abandoned Wheel! He betrays his King!”

“He is dead,” Nim hissed through her teeth. She backed the King into a corner. “You are a fool to _send_ a fool to subdue _my_ Captain!”

“You have been deceived, Nim,” the King explained, raising his hands in surrender, “If we must speak of fools, then do not fool _yourself_. You know that even now I hold back. I have no need to defend myself from you or your soldiers.”

“Then _face_ me! Attack!”

“No!” Mer cried, standing his ground. His face dropped. “Oh what irony,” he muttered sadly, shaking his head. “How many times have I begged for your company? How many times have I written you? I’ve wanted to face you, but not like _this_!” The King buckled to his knees, earnestly reaching for his Queen. “You have stormed my city, and I must defend the lives within it. Whatever injustice Spring caused you and your Captain, I cannot redeem. But the citizens of Wheel are innocent. I am innocent. Please, believe my words. We have not moved against you.”

Nim looked upon her husband, remembering the long nights she spent reading over his letters. She studied his face, examining his comely exterior, even on his knees as he pledged his love to a woman who wished him dead. Mer retained elegance and beauty unique to most men. His red hair didn’t move with the wind as it passed overhead. Instead, his hair thickly spread, motionless, spiked tall like a crown of flames. His eyes burned into Nim’s with devotion that refused to die. The Queen faltered at the sight of her King.

Lowering her sword with no further hatred staining her vision, Nim gave a troubled sigh. As the weight of her weapon nosed the stone at her feet, she stumbled. For the first time since her ascent to the fortress edge, she looked out across the battlefield. Both armies steadily warded off the Sleepers. Though gaining no ground, soldiers maintained their positions. Fewer casualties fell, though scores of dead bodies piled high enough to be noticed. It appeared as though a storm swept through, washing away life with the passing of a single, turbulent cloud.

“Our warriors have found their footing,” Mer said in a hushed tone, “but the Sleepers will not rest. They will outlast each one of us. All we can do is keep them at bay.” He pointed down to the foot of the wall where teams of soldiers gathered wood and grass to burn. Quickly, they stacked the pyres. Flames reached higher and spread wider. In return, the Sleepers distanced themselves, flying deeper into the city.

Nim’s hands shook as she noticed fewer Fore squadrons were able to regroup. Mer was correct – it looked like a losing battle. Desperate, and forgetting her earlier sentiment toward Mer, Nim lifted her sword, swinging it once again. “Then we shall both go down for our misdeeds! This has never been about the Sleepers!”

Left with little choice, Mer drew his arms to his chest and began to glow. He thrust his hands out, sending a force that knocked the Queen to the ground. As she struggled back to her feet, he rushed to a nearby tower, climbing a ladder. Grappling upward, he reached the top and hurried toward a cannon’s command station.

The King fidgeted with the weapon’s control panel before heaving a sigh. The cannon had no power. Bending over, Mer grabbed the thick cable chaining the cannons together. With uncanny strength, he tore the cable apart, exposing metal wires inside. Seating himself in the gunner’s chair with the controls in one hand and the exposed wires in the other, he drew a deep breath. His palms began to glow, surging energy through the cable. Suddenly the cannon kicked on, cells charged. Armed with the sole piece of mounted artillery still in operation, the King aimed it across the battlefield, firing at the Sleepers. Each shot brought a low thumping pulse that sent waves through the air, knocking the demons to the ground. Mer knew the cannon wouldn’t be enough to destroy them but it would slow their assault. His only regret was that he couldn’t power every weapon along the wall.

Nim followed the King’s path, rushing to the tower. Heedless, she climbed the narrow ladder, her Fore cloak animated by powerful winds. The Queen was weak and bruised, wondering how long she could keep after Mer. She could never match him physically, especially when he wielded such powerful magic. Instead, she hoped to exhaust him or catch him off guard while consumed by distraction – anything to overpower her husband.

But as Nim struggled to climb, she noticed shapes soaring past her in the sky. Sleepers. There was something odd about their flight patterns – they moved away from the city, making no attempt to attack. At first, Nim thought they were in retreat. _No_, she realized._ They’re being dragged. Dragged through the air._

The Sleepers were pulled by an unseen force that hid away from the city, beyond the canopy of the trees. They didn’t fly with their own wings, but instead gathered very obviously against their will, wrenched across the heavens like autumn leaves on a breezy day. The demons clawed at the air, maintaining futile resistance. Every Sleeper previously immersed in the battle was now summoned away. The Queen had a thought. _They are being taken to the Yield._

Nim climbed higher, reaching the peak of the tower. In the distance, over the trees, she spotted the Yield just below the horizon. The great crack glowed, pulsing with fervor, as if it convulsed between the terrain. The massive fissure sucked the Sleepers back inside, as if someone, somewhere, pulled a plug on a very large drain. She scanned across the city, her eyes examining neighboring towers. Wheel guards held their positions and Fore soldiers claimed posts. Every man and woman pointed to the great _crack_ in the ground. Shouts were heard from all over the battlement.

“The Yield!”

“It’s closing!”

When the very last Sleeper disappeared, there was a moment of silence as troops on either side stood waiting, unsure of what to do. The moment broke when able-bodied soldiers began to seek out the injured and dying, attending to their wounds. Panting with exhaustion, rival swordsmen debated whether or not to draw weapons on one another now that the Sleepers were gone.

* * *

Ome was crying, curled up beside the statue of Wall. She cried until her eyes dried up and all that was left to do was miserably stare off. And so she stared, lost in her memories of the Sleeper. But as her thoughts inched along, something broke her concentration – the statue began to crack. Ome gasped, scooting away, watching as Wall’s body collapsed into small pieces, scattered along the sand. She had no tears left and so there she sat, eyes wide, observing the last of him crumble and disappear. Wall was gone.

The lake stirred as the wind quietly pushed the waters closer to the shore. The voices no longer sang, and all Ome heard was the chatter of birds from trees above. She turned away from the crumbled statue, staring off into a _new_ direction. As she did so, her eyes recognized an object in the sand – that Sword. _Grehm_. Strange how it remained with her, through everything. Despite the attack and abduction, despite her death – the awful thing lingered like a curse.

“This is all because of _you_,” Ome muttered. She stood, ambling toward it like an angry drunk. She walked across the sand, bent over, and picked it up. “_I hate you_,” she whispered, glaring at its blade. The lake stirred once more beneath a swirl of wind, then settled.

“I HATEYOU!” she shouted as those same chattering birds above scattered from surrounding trees. Ome raised Grehm above her head, moments from launching it to the center of the lake. But something stopped her. The sand rustled as the ground violently shook, causing bubbles to rise in the lake water. And as the bubbles breached and popped, the water swelled, capping against itself in tiny waves. The waves moved and pulsated, dancing angrily against one another until they grew bigger, splashing around as if a giant kicked the whole lake lopsided. Ome looked up at Grehm. It began to glow – just as her amulet glowed. She triggered _something_.

The lake erupted and burst until the water split right down the middle, washing away from the center of it all. Something emerged from the deep. Its head broke the surface, white and glistening, followed by a long, massive neck. Its face had teeth – razor sharp – and the eyes, they were wide and red. It moved further away from the deep, climbing out of the water like a long, forgotten nightmare. Hoisting itself to the land, the creature was massive, bigger than any building – and it spoke to Ome in a voice as powerful as thunder.

“I am Pen,” it boomed. “The Dragon of the lake. I am at your command. You hold the Sword forged from my very bone. You hold my master – _Dashosgrehm_.”

A dragon! Pen was a _dragon_! Ome’s mouth dropped, she let go of Grehm, and cowered in the sand. “Please,” she begged. “Don’t kill me!”

“I am yours,” said Pen. “I await your command.” He lowered a massive, scaled wing. It was as white as pearl and as sprawling as a rooftop.

“Take up Dashosgrehm, human. Climb to me. _Command me_.”

Ome stood, resisting the urge to cower like a child. She glanced back at the sand where Wall’s statue had crumbled, reflecting on the pile of rubble he’d left behind. Remorseful and angry, she clenched her teeth. Before Wall fell to pieces, he was frozen in stone, solidified in a moment that Ome wished they could have again.

Furiously, she turned and nodded to Pen. Ome lifted Grehm from the sand, strapping it to her back. Pen waited patiently as she climbed across his great wing, moving steadily toward his ridged back. She nestled just behind his head, holding tight to a dragon scale as big as a shield. The wind spun loudly, circling Ome’s head as her hair flipped in various directions. It screamed past her ears, deafening her to the world below.

“Take me to Wheel!” she shouted.

“As you command,” nodded Pen.

* * *

Exhausted from using his own strength to power the cannon, Mer slid out of the gunner’s chair, buckling with fatigue. He ambled away and then turned to see that Nim had followed him. She picked up a discarded modrif with its power cell charged and glowing.

“I thought they were disabled,” Nim said, aiming it at her husband. “This one seems to have life in it.”

Mer was weak, drained, and pale. “Residual energy,” he sighed. “It must have charged while I worked the cannon.” He frowned. “You don’t look right, holding a weapon like that. Yet there you are, doing just what I feared. For years I tried to keep such technology from you. Perhaps this is a fate I most deserve.”

“Is that all you have to say?” Nim scowled, raising the modrif, pressing the barrel to Mer’s head. “After all these years, after all your letters…”

“Go ahead and shoot me, then, if your trust is gone.”

In spite of her resentment, Nim couldn’t pull the trigger. As she stared into the King’s weakened face, which she had not looked upon for many years, she began to hate herself. She thought of every hour she spent pouring over his letters, hiding her thoughts from her people. Nim’s heart sank with the weight of the bitterness between them. Her trust in most things _was_ gone, but still she wondered if perhaps Mer hadn’t betrayed Brush after all.

The King opened his mouth to speak but suddenly the tower shook and the ground became unsteady. In the distance the Yield disappeared with a violent pulse, shaking the land around it. Knocked from her feet, Nim dropped the modrif, slamming into her husband. The two of them tumbled along the stone as soldiers throughout the battlement no longer pointed to the Yield, but to the sky. Mer and Nim looked high above, momentarily forgetting their struggle as they were cast in the imposing shadow of a great, white dragon which had just perched itself on the city wall.


	24. Chapter 24

Artorius and Brush arrived at the cottage. The Wizard still gripped his wife by the torso, balancing her over his shoulder. Brush continued to protest, maddened by her husband’s impulsivity and selfishness. As Artorius neared his front door, he exhaled with a heavy breath, setting Brush down on the grass. As soon as the Captain’s feet touched down, she angrily rushed at her husband, prepared to hit him upside the skull. As Brush did so, she winced and screamed, immediately retracting her arm.

“Your shoulders,” nodded Artorius. “Allow me.” The Wizard laid his hands on his wife’s broken bones, feeding subtle warmth from his palms to her skin. Brush felt the pain melt away as Artorius managed to bind the cracks together, fusing each break and shatter as if she’d never been injured.

“Don’t think this changes a thing!” she cried.

Artorius shook his head, turned around, and unlocked the entrance to his home. He shuffled inside, crossing over the door’s threshold with a bounce of purpose. Brush followed behind, closing the front door with a furious slam. Not the least startled by the sound, Artorius decisively scanned the den, spotting a burlap bag spread across the floor. He lifted it, glancing around the tiny cottage as if he began an Easter egg hunt. Meanwhile, Brush shouted at him, her tousled green hair hanging in her face. Artorius ignored her, preoccupied with filling his bag.

“How dare you!” she yelled. “You had no right! _NO_ right! I could have you jailed for this. I could be jailed for this, _myself_!”

Artorius picked up odds and ends of his belongings, stuffing them into the bag. Every few moments, he swirled his fingers clockwise, moving larger objects with the help of magic. Meanwhile, Brush grew angrier, watching her husband behave strangely.

“What the hell are you doing!” she screamed. “You haven’t said a word to me! Answer me!”

Artorius paused, studying the binding of an aged book. “You think this’ll be worth anything?” he asked with an inquisitive glance.

“What!” Brush was utterly flabbergasted by such a ridiculous question. She walked over to her husband and slapped the book from his hands. The tome fell to the floor, landing flat and open, its splayed pages bent beneath the weight of their own thickness.

“Why’d you do that?” whined Artorius.

Brush grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “_What_ is going on?” she demanded. “Why did you remove me from battle? And _what_ are you doing?”

Artorius lifted a hand, touching his fingers to his forehead as if to organize his thoughts. “I’m sorry,” he replied, shaking his head. He dropped the bag to the floor and looked into Brush’s eyes. Artorius wondered how in the world he could ever remedy the damage already done.

“We have to talk,” he whispered, almost sadly.

Brush cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

Artorius backed away from his wife, indicating she give him room. With a heavy look in his eye, the Wizard moved his hands in a well-rehearsed pattern. With crossed arms, Brush sighed, unimpressed, watching her husband perform yet another magic trick. But something caught her eye as the air spun around Artorius like a soft whirlwind. He _changed_.

Artorius’ hair color faded, no longer green. His eyes did the same, as well as his posture, skin tone, and build. While her husband’s face remained the same, Brush realized the context of his body, hair, and skin changed from one variety to another. Shocked, her mouth dropped, unable to grasp what he had done.

“What is this?” asked Brush.

“This is what I am,” confessed Artorius.

“_This_?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “_This_.”

“And what _is_ this?!” demanded Brush.

The Wizard lowered his arms, his face dropped, and a frame of hopelessness shaped his eyes.

“I’m _human_.”

* * *

Nim and Mer stood atop the battlement, looking up at the creature perched on the wall, just above the Wheel city gate. Soldiers from both armies froze, looking to their respective King and Queen, who were as equally stunned. No Yoth could mistake the dreaded form of Pen. And while the dragon’s sudden arrival came as a surprise, more surprising was the sight of Ome perched high on its back, brandishing Grehm.

Mer found the strength to stand and hobbled forward. Perplexed, he called out, “What do you mean to do, human? Is _this_ how you plan to bargain your way home?”

Nim turned abruptly. “Do you know her?” she asked. Suspicion swelled in the Queen’s mind once again.

“I’ll kill anyone I have to!” Ome shouted, “Anyone unwilling to hear me!”

Nim cried out, “You have no idea what you are doing! Do you know the history of destruction that creature has caused?”

The wind cried high above, carrying Nim’s voice to Ome’s ears. Pen’s mammoth neck pulsed in and out with the rise and fall of its breath. Ome patted the dragon, almost reassuringly as she whispered into the its ear, “Lower a wing, I need to step down.” Obediently, Pen did as she commanded.

Ome strapped Grehm to her back and found her footing along the dragon’s wing. She scooted along until there was no choice but to crouch to her knees. Doing so, she descended the leathery webbing that fanned between Pen’s long, titanic phalanges.

As Ome lowered herself to the battlement, she sauntered toward the King and Queen. Pulling Grehm from her back, she maintained a tight grip around its hilt. “I know Pen’s the only thing big enough to come between egos as big as _yours_,” said Ome, pointing the tip of Grehm’s blade at Mer and Nim.

“You tread on dangerous ground, coming here with that creature,” Mer scolded. As Ome drew closer, he noticed the amulet around her neck, glowing. His eyes shifted to Nim who had already made the same observation.

“_Dangerous_ ground?” Ome laughed sarcastically, “Oh! I’m sorry! Ambushes and tanks and battering rams aren’t dangerous enough, are they? I thought I’d bring a dragon to the fight, but that’s far _too_ dangerous, huh?”

Though every bystander had heard of Pen’s majesty, and some even remembered his last coming, few could look on without fear. And when the dragon spoke, his booming voice shook every Yoth to the core. “I am Pen, the death of this land. I have been called upon to bring order to your chaos. Who would dare threaten she who wields Dashosgrehm? Would you have me destroy these people, master?”

“Not yet,” replied Ome, “As tempting as that sounds.”

Nim held out her palms to signal she meant no harm. “What is it you want?”

Ome’s brow furrowed as she narrowed her eyes at the Queen. “What do I _want_?” she asked desperately. “You know _damn well_ what I want!” Ome barred her teeth, raising Grehm as if she were ready to strike a baseball.

“Then speak,” Mer said. “We are willing to hear you.”

Ome breathed heavily, unsure what to say. She hadn’t thought of what she would actually _say_ when the time came, and now she faced thousands of soldiers and two enfeebled monarchs.

“I want to go _home_!” she yelled. “And I want – I want,” Ome eyes softened as her voice trailed. Tears welled, rolling down her cheeks. “I want _Wall_!” she cried, feeling the rupture of a panic attack at the mention of his name.

“Wall?” Mer looked to Nim for answers, but the Queen only shrugged.

“My master speaks of her companion,” roared Pen, his voice low and pronounced. “She yearns for a demon whose life extinguished shortly before my calling. His shattered form lies at the shore of Hymn Lake, my place of rest.”

“You summoned this monster because of a _Sleeper_?” berated Nim.

Ome gave no response to the Queen’s disapproval. She only panted with exhaustion, clutching Grehm from a threatening stance.

“The demons are gone,” explained Mer. “They returned to the Yield and are no more.”

“Hear me, people of Lot!” bellowed Pen. “For I am part of your world, in ways you cannot understand. The demon my master speaks of was _not_ called back to the Yield. He was responsible for ending the plague of creatures that terrorized your land. My master’s demon was the one who closed the Yield.”

“The _Sleeper_?” Nim blinked. “It – _he_ – came to my chambers last night. He took my amulet. And he never _attacked_.”

“I know that amulet.” Mer pointed to Ome’s neck, and then looked to Nim. “It was my wedding gift, to you. When we were young and in love, it glowed brightly. But one day–”

“–it stopped,” said Nim, coldly eyeing her King.

“See how it glows again!” cried Pen. The fortress walls shook, their foundation carrying the echo of the dragon’s commanding voice deep into the soil. “The amulet has been shown love – true selflessness.” Pen’s enormous, red eyes widened with amazement just before narrowing upon the King with unnerving concentration. “Tell me how you came by it, Cambion.”

Mer faltered, momentarily speechless. In the back of his mind he always wondered if he caused the Yield to open so many years ago. The King never confirmed his suspicions.

“Speak, oh mighty King, oh halfling child of the old world!” demanded Pen. “This is your time of judgment. How did an amulet such as this come to my land?”

“It belonged to my father,” reasoned Mer. “He was a Sleeper. I knew it radiated in the presence of love and compassion. But I never imagined it was capable of opening something like the Yield!”

“Fool!” growled Pen, leaning closer to the King as he cowered beneath the dragon’s silhouette. “You, of all, should know the dangers of contaminating one world with possessions from another. The amulet is no more native to Lot than you. This land is fortunate that it found its way back into the presence of love. Such a shame it could not find such radiance in the company of your Queen.”

“So this is _yours_?” asked Ome, raising the amulet. “It never glowed until – well – until Wall spoke to me.”

“How can a Sleeper _speak_?” asked Nim, unsure if whether or not to believe the human.

“In an act of sacrifice!” the dragon cried, turning his focus to the Queen. “Something about which you know very little. Just as you wield power in your royal command, demons carry power in their voices. When the demon spoke, he returned life to my master, but he knew all the while it would cost him his own. Have you never made such a sacrifice? No. Long have you let others suffer due to your pride and inhibitions.”

Nim hung her head in shame.

The dragon continued, addressing both monarches with a condemning glare. “My master was only one of many who suffered due to carelessness and pride. My calling has been long overdue. It took the suffering of outsiders to raise me from Hymn Lake.”

“Everything was black,” explained Ome, trying to remember. “When Wall spoke to me, it was like he pulled me out of a place deep in the dark – somewhere cold.”

“He removed your death,” explained Pen. “He used his words to trade his life for yours. It seems a fair price to pay for such power. But that is the nature of all things. You have suffered greatly, master. Dashosgrehm is a part of me, plucked from my very ribs and fashioned into the Sword that has caused you so much pain. But I am at your command. What would you have me do?”

Mer and Nim looked to Ome with appeal, ready to beg for mercy.

“Ever since I arrived,” said Ome, shaking her head at the two of them, “I’ve been nothing but wrapped up in your bullshit. It was just a stupid fight I got caught in the middle of, and I put up with it just to get back home! I’m can’t be sure who was trying to _help_ me or who was trying to _kill_ me. I’m sorry but I don’t think I’ve asked that much of any of you! I _just_ want to leave!” Ome’s eyebrows sank as she frowned angrily. “You want know the worst thing? The one person who tried to protect me this whole time – he’s dead!”

Ome began to cry. She turned to Pen. “I don’t want anyone else to die. I just want to go home.”

“I can send you home,” interjected Mer. “I can create a Dactyl without the use of the book. But _please_, dismiss the dragon!”

“Forgive my lack of trust,” debated Ome, “but I will _not_ send the dragon away. I can give the Sword to Artorius. Have _him_ deal with this after I leave.” Ome paused, lowering the blade, looking it over as she considered further demands. “Grehm shouldn’t fall into _either_ of your hands. It should be returned to Artorius, even if he _is_ a jackass.”

“I beg to differ! He is a _traitor_!” argued Nim.

“Those are my terms,” asserted Ome.

Mer quietly waved his hand in approval. Then he looked to his wife for agreement. Nim clenched her jaw and shook her head, insulted by Ome’s retort. Mer approached his Queen, reaching out to her with an open hand. As he squeezed her fingers between his own, he looked beyond the obstruction of Nim’s heavy mask, peering softly into her eyes. “Nim,” soothed Mer, “the human is right. It is time for us to move on. It is time to send her home.”

Nim clutched Mer’s hand tighter and exhaled quietly, as if she surrendered all her pride in that small hint of breath. The Queen bowed her head in agreement.

As the monarchs negotiated with Ome, soldiers emerged from their hiding places, watching the conversation unfold. They avoided the city wall for fear of the beast that hovered just beyond their reach, enveloping them in a colossal shadow.

Suddenly a massive pulse ripped through a corner of the battlement. A cannon blast had knocked out a portion of the wall. Ome and Nim staggered, falling to their hands and knees. Mer maintained his stance, albeit roughly. All eyes turned to the direction of the blast as soldiers hesitantly reached for their weapons. Pen rose, alarmed by the shock, and belted out uncanny, reptilian sounds.

Approaching the city, a damaged tank sped across the grass. Seated at the gunner’s chair, right behind the cannon, was _Spring_. Bent and bruised, he hunched forward with a desperate look about him. Blood – dried, dark, and stale – caked the entirety of his jaw, trailing from his neck to his chest. Spring’s decorated armor had also been washed bloody, stained with varying shades of red and brown. His handsome face was now dirty, cut, and sweating profusely. He could barely rotate the cannon as he fired.

Nim looked on in horror, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Brush insisted she had killed him, but her assertion appeared to be a grave mistake.

“That wretch is more resilient than we anticipated!” exclaimed the Queen.

“Traitorous fiend!” shouted Mer.

The tank sped wildly toward the gate as Spring fired at squads of soldiers from both districts. The bodies flew as pulses from the cannon shattered the ground at their feet. Not even the quickest of them could escape the rampaging tank.

Spring shrieked, making an attempt to speak despite the gaping wound in his neck. The sound emerged as a gurgled scream, coupled with the cannon blasts. He pointed the weapon toward the battlement and fired rapidly, first striking Mer, then switching aim to Pen.

The King flew into a collapsed wall, pinned beneath falling bricks and beams. Nim, who managed to avoid the blast, immediately ran to his aid, crying out for help.

Ome toppled off the battlement, landing on the stairs below. She gagged as the wind was knocked from her chest. Looking up, she watched as Pen was struck by the force of the cannon, startling the dragon rather than causing injury. As Ome struggled to her feet, Pen had already leapt into the air, wings spread, crying out with ferocity. Suddenly, the dragon came crashing down on the tank.

Enormous jaws descended upon Spring as he gargled in terror. And rather than swallow the Captain in one fluid motion, the dragon gnashed it teeth, grinding them along Spring’s flesh and bone. Pen flung pieces of the Captain across the air: hands, legs, feet, and more. As the dragon pulled its jaws away from the tank, staring across the battlement, Spring’s disembodied head dangled from its monstrous chin. His long, green hair clenched between rows of pointed, blood-stained teeth. Spring’s face was frozen in a moment of revulsion. His mouth stretched wide, exposing candy pink gums and a dead, sagged tongue that waggled beyond his lips. Soldiers below gripped tightly to their weapons, fleeing from the appalling sight.

On top of the wall, Nim held Mer with one arm and waved for aid with the other. The King groaned with pain, bleeding from a gash on his head.

“Mer!” Nim cried, “I am sorry, my husband!” Ashamed, she no longer disbelieved his accusations of Spring’s treachery.

Mer breathed heavily. “I meant every word in my letters...”

“You will not die,” Nim gasped.

“You would be surprised what I can survive,” Mer gave a pained laugh. Guards rushed to the aid of them both, attending the King’s wounds and clearing away debris.

Pen spread his wings, briefly took to the air, and returned to the battlement to find Ome who was still dazed from the attack. The dragon stood sentinel with Ome, looking over the battlefield as every soldier turned to one another to mend injuries. For the first time in over a decade, the animosity between Wheel and Fore diminished. Now that the dust had settled, and every last shot had been fired, it appeared that a time for healing could begin.


	25. Chapter 25

Weeks passed since Ome returned home. Her basement remained filthy for a variety of reasons. Some reasons were less obvious than others. While she no longer believed monsters lived beneath the stairs, Ome spent the bulk of her time thinking about Lot. How she came to know so much about it, and all because of an unclean basement. She decided to leave it be. And so the basement gathered dust, waiting for the return of its caretaker.

Another reason Ome avoided the basement was because she found herself surprisingly busy. The sudden increase of daily activities was due in part to her sudden interest in leaving the house. Confinement didn’t suit her quite as well – not after the adventures she’d had. Ome hungered for more. The sidewalk just outside her house no longer posed the threat it once did.

As months passed, she wandered out her front door nearly every day, whether the afternoon whisked her away to a museum, or the evening swept her off to a symphony. Ome stepped outside for any reason. Sometimes, heaven forbid, she stepped outside for _no_ reason at all. Ome ventured deep into her city, attempting a life of rediscovery, gripped by wonder and amusement that she had long since forgotten.

Once in awhile, she meandered away from her home, hoping to stumble back into the Clip Woods. Ome caught herself daydreaming of it. The trees and mud, littered with a riot of vinery, waiting to envelop her once again. She visited the city parks near her home, but none captured the beautiful savagery of the Clip Woods. 

As Ome walked along a park’s clean, visible path, she grieved at the safety of it. The city park was absolutely bland. She hoped to see two men, fighting like children, dressed as chefs, ready to lead her back to a place far different from everything she ever knew. And as she walked along the city streets, day in and day out, scanning store windows for a hint of excitement, Ome caught herself on more than one occasion, searching for faces hidden in the dilapidated walls of aged buildings. Her house was no stranger to this behavior as well. She often peeked around a corner, down the hall, in a closet – searching for a Dactyl, just as a child searched for four-leaf clovers. Was there a hint of disappointment when a wall was simply _a wall_? Indeed. But Ome’s disappointment was admittedly wrapped in begrudging relief.

Another behavior occurred solely at night. Ome curled up in her bed every evening, turned out the light, and debated whether or not to open the window. At first she mulled it over, wondering if such a thing would make all the difference. She had difficulty sleeping since she returned from Lot. Soon enough Ome experimented with the idea of sleeping near an open window. To her surprise, dreams came more swiftly. She knew Wall had died, but the quiet presence of an open window gave her the contentment she needed to drift off to sleep. Though, at times she cried into her pillow, Ome often stared out the window until she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She watched the leaves in the trees bend to the wind, listening for the crescendo of an engine as a rush of headlights peaked in the distance, then waned.

* * *

One day, venturing even farther from her element, Ome decided to hunt for a job. She saw a posting at her local library. It was for an opening at the biggest hospital in her city. The position was “department secretary”, located in the intensive care unit. She polished up a very old, empty resume, filed all the necessary paperwork, and sent it off to the proper recipients.

It had been a long time since Ome worked. The gaps in her employment history, the inability to offer any expertise, and the blatant shame in carrying around those very setbacks gave her even less reasons to seek a career. But since her return from Lot, she tried many things. And, in hindsight, during Ome’s stay in Lot, she did many things that no one had ever done. Such experience wasn’t appropriate for a job application, but it felt appropriate for the applicant, herself.

More weeks passed, but she waited patiently. Ome spent her time wisely, still venturing to one place or another. And somewhere in the midst of the waiting period, the hospital requested her for an interview. She was nervous, but confident. She dressed in her nicest clothing, gathered her paperwork, and caught the first city bus headed for the hospital. When she arrived, the building was large and sprawling, as most prominent hospitals tend to be. _But not as large as a palace, _she thought. _Certainly not as large as a kingdom. Not as large as the fist of a troll or the wing of a dragon._

Ome smirked at the layout. It was all too easy to navigate. As she traipsed through the lobby, her heels clacked against the shiny floor. A friendly receptionist greeted her, as she made her way to the elevators. Ome checked a directory. Right away she knew which floor to seek, which elevator to take – everything was mapped out so easily.

_We live life so easily…_

And off she went, in search of Mr. Inip, her interviewer in question. He was located in Human Resources, on the 5th floor. She stepped into the elevator and pressed “5”. The ride was a far cry from tumultuous carriages ambushed by monsters. And what of traveling potions, landing her in places determined by crudely drawn maps? The elevator went up and down. That was it.

Ome stepped into Human Resources and introduced herself to the secretary typing away at the front desk who smiled, informing Ome that Mr. Inip would be with her in a moment.

“Have a seat,” said the secretary.

Waiting was the next obstacle. Often, people abhorred the waiting period. It was a fine way to psych out prospective applicants. But not Ome. She reveled in it. Waiting in a soft chair, sitting right beside those same ridiculous magazines from the doctor’s office – it was nice. It wasn’t exciting. It wasn’t panic-inducing. It was simply _nice_. She wasn’t trapped in an empty room, guarded by soldiers, given only cushy pillows and a plate of fruit and nuts to reassure her they hadn’t decided to kill her yet. To be able to wait without risk of capture or death, or to hear others around her speak of casual things, rather than war – it was _nice_.

Ome waited and listened and questioned her love-hate relationship with Lot. She used it to remind herself of the comforts of her own world, yet she longed for it with every fiber of her heart. Right down to the very marrow in her bones, and every shred of tissue meshed between her body and soul – Ome missed the damned place.

Mr. Inip waltzed around the corner, dressed in a suit and tie. He extended a hand, greeting her with a smile. Then he led her to a small conference room, just down the hall from the front desk.

“Have a seat!” he cheerfully gestured. Mr. Inip was a spirited man. He seemed friendly enough. Ome obliged, pulling out a chair, setting her paperwork down. As she scooted forward, she was pleased the chair didn’t trap her against the table. She could leave whenever she wished.

During the interview, Ome was asked a series of questions. Some she had an easier time answering than others. But for the most part, the questions weren’t too tricky. As Mr. Inip’s words came flowing out, explaining the hospital and what it looks for in employees, her mind wandered again to Lot. Questions – so many _questions_. Ome remembered having asked so many questions of so many people.

But this time, someone _else_ asked the questions. It was refreshing. Upon hindsight, she understood Brush’s impatience. She asked nearly every question of the Captain she could. Meanwhile, Brush was up to her eyes in more important duties. Ome knew the Captain never liked her, and a part of her hated that. But another part of her missed Brush, as though she missed an older sibling, one who unknowingly taught her how to toughen up – to _grow up_ a little.

_I asked all the questions, and they spanked me for my "satiable curiosities.” And here I am, trying out my new elephant’s trunk._

Mr. Inip rattled off a few more inquiries. Ome answered, citing examples to back her claims. And then he asked her a curious thing.

“How would you _describe_ yourself?” Mr. Inip grinned.

Ome hesitated.

Should she have lied? She wondered at the subject. Her self-esteem was a fickle thing. Describing herself wasn’t simply challenging, but unpalatable. She dared her panic to rise up again. She dared it to seize the opportunity, faced with a question that turned her stomach inside out.

…_describe yourself…_

But instead of panicking or even lying, Ome thought of a reply. She went with the truth. “I’m stronger than I give myself credit. If you challenge me, you’ll see results. I’ll use this job opportunity to demonstrate my full potential and grow as an employee and as a person. I’m someone who makes a difference. Without me, this hospital would be lacking.”

Impressed, Mr. Inip thanked Ome, stating that he planned to check her references. She felt a brief rush of delight, wondering if that was an implication of interest. Thanking Mr. Inip, she shook his hand. Then she gathered her belongings, exited the conference room, and left the hospital as effortlessly as she found it.

* * *

At the peak of comfort, Ome had a chance encounter like something out of a dream – as though her time spent in Lot weren’t dreamlike enough. Making her rounds to antique shops, she hoped to find items to decorate her home in that vintage, shabby-chic style she always admired. Ome knew she could find vendors at the mall selling bulk items that fabricated the look, but the thrill of moving from store to store, sifting through junk to find treasures, was much more gratifying. And in any case, she was interested in _authenticity_.

At a particular store, in a rather busy part of the city, Ome browsed a collection of lampshades and throw pillows. As she rummaged, she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Across the room was a tall woman with short, shaggy hair which looked as though it was dyed. As the woman moved closer to the front counter that displayed an old, rusty cash register, the dim lighting from the old-fashioned chandeliers above cast a warm glow across her head. _Green_. The woman’s hair was indeed colored. At the sight of it, Ome’s nostalgia quivered. Next to the woman was a man in his late thirties, immersed in conversation with the store owner. The man excitedly presented a burlap bag, removing antique items he’d hoped to sell. Some of the pieces caught the owner’s interest, while others noticeably did not.

As the man rambled to the owner, the woman shifted her weight and turned. Ome’s eyes met hers, and for a moment she froze in confusion. _Brush._

At first, the woman didn’t see Ome, and so she wondered if her eyes were playing tricks. But then the woman’s gaze doubled back, spotting her. As their eyes locked, the man who bargained with the shop owner turned to his green haired friend, asking her opinion. When he noticed her staring at Ome, he lifted his chin for a better look. Ome’s stare bounced from the green haired woman to the man. And as he looked right back at her, she recognized him in his human form. _Artorius._

A rush of confidence washed over Ome. _This is real. I’m not dreaming this._

Brush and Artorius both recognized their long lost acquaintance, even from across the dim, crowded antique shop. Ome wanted to say something, but no words felt appropriate. In fact, nothing seemed necessary. She gave a stifled wave, nodding artlessly with composed understanding. The two nodded back, ever so slightly, then turned to the shop owner who sifted through their wares.

The owner lifted a large bundled item from Artorius’ pile. He unwrapped it, awed by its antiquity with wide eyes and raised brows. Ome craned her neck, curious as to what the owner held. It was a sword. The shop owner lifted it from its bindings, inspecting the strange carvings on its handle.

She watched and understood. She finally understood what became of the Captain and the Wizard. The two reached a tranquil ending to their chaotic story. They returned to a shared existence that evaded them for over a decade. Ome glanced down and smiled. She smiled scarcely, but she smiled, understanding the fate of the couple, and of Grehm.

Feeling little need to approach either of them, she decided to leave. On her way out, she passed Brush, who gave a subtle shake of the head and a grin. Ome could barely remember Brush smiling even once during her time as Captain.

But now, it appeared, the Captain was retired. Content, really. Her heart at ease…

* * *

Ome slipped out of her clothes and dressed cozily in a pair of soft, gray pajama pants and a tank top. She went through her usual nighttime routine: brushed her teeth, washed her face, switched on a fan, and turned out all the lights except for a very small night-light right outside the bathroom. Then she sprawled on her bed, resting her spine against the soft fabric of the mattress’ pillow top. Her muscles relaxed. She had yet to pull back the covers and find warmth. Ome draped across the bed, trance-like, thinking deeply on various things. Mostly she thought of the hospital job, and how pleasing it would be to find herself in a normal routine.

_Normal. What is normal? _she wondered. _Does it mean having things that buzz inside you? Or is that simply the illusion of “real” according to certain Skin Horses? Maybe nothing is normal. No one has seen “normal.” They can’t find it. Only comfort is normal. It’s what we’re familiar with. Comfort offers itself to us in a variety of toy-boxes._

At that moment, Ome heard something tap against the window. She sat up. Staring, she wondered if it was her imagination. Then she paused, searching for that familiar surge of panic. It was nowhere to be found.

The tapping came again. It was harder, louder, like a knock – right outside the window.

_I forgot to open the window tonight._

Fearlessly, Ome stood and walked over to the sill. She reached up and unhooked the lock, sliding the window open. The cool night air fluttered into her bedroom. It was quiet outside. No cars. No crescendo of engines or rush of headlights. No wind. Just silence. Ome backed away, repositioning herself on the bed. Still staring, she waited. Something was about to happen – and she felt nothing but composure.

Two hands reached over the window’s ledge. They gripped the woodwork, straining as they hoisted a somewhat cumbersome weight. Ome waited, calmly, curiously. She wasn’t afraid. Something felt all too familiar.

A man pulled himself up to the sill, about chest-high. Then he lifted his legs over the edge, dangling them above Ome’s bedroom carpet. He sat casually with the moonlight on his back, puffed out a breath and said, “You are a hard woman to find.”

Ome reached for her bedside lamp and switched it on. The man was tall, dressed in a black t-shirt and dark denim. He had high cheekbones, a pointed nose, and a slender jaw. His skin was as white as milk and his hair was red, draped to his shoulders in thick layers. He had wide, deep-set eyes. They were dark blue – like a stormy sky.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Why are you at my window?”

“A good question, because it is not in my nature to climb through them anymore.” He laughed. “But in your case, I made an exception.” The man smiled and asked, “Don’t you recognize me?”

He slid forward and jumped down from the sill, landing on the floor. Still smiling, he walked toward Ome and sat next to her on the bed.

Squinting, she cocked her head to the side. He _was_ familiar. The nose, the chin, the hair, the height – but a few things seemed _off_. The eyes, for example. They looked new. Inexperienced. The eyes of an infant – and they were beautiful. The eyes distracted Ome, pulling recognition further away. She glanced around them, searching the man’s bone and skin for acquaintanceship. The curvature of his stature held familiarity.

Ome hesitated, then claimed her guess. “_Wall_?”

The man smiled. “Yes.”

How was it possible? Wall was _dead_. Ome remembered his voice, as brief as the first encounter with it had been. It matched. And she remembered his face and body – those, too, matched. And finally, she remembered the irony of the first time they met, how she mistook Wall _for_ a man, when in fact he was a monster. But there sat a man, on the edge of her bed, similar to a monster she once thought was a man. But the moonlight struck his back and she saw no wings – only smooth shoulders beneath a dark, cotton shirt.

“_How_?” she asked. “How are you alive?”

Wall nodded. “Consider it a thank you from Mer. He is a powerful Wizard. More powerful than Artorius. After you left, he collected my remains from the lake. He returned me to my flesh.”

Wall took Ome by the hand, scooting closer to her on the bed. “But,” he added, “Mer also gave me something _more_.”

“You’re human.”

“Yes,” answered Wall.

“I had no idea he was capable of such magic,” she said. “_This_ isn’t just a disguise?”

“Of that I am certain,” replied Wall. “Mer took my dust and made it into flesh, and the flesh he made was that of a man. He gave me human sight, so that I could look upon the world as a creature _above_ ground. And he gave me a voice without punishment, so that I may freely speak as a man speaks.” Wall paused, swollen with words too numerous to choose from. He continued with his single story, wishing for a thousand more voices to tell thousands of declarations to a woman he knew would listen. And even then, the numbers were insufficient. “Mer said that what I did for you was selfless. _Noble_. He said it was rare to see such self sacrifice, even among men. For a Sleeper to demonstrate it – the King had felt he had no choice but to grant me what I wished.” Wall leaned closer to Ome, his breath on her cheek. “He didn’t ask how to repay me. He begged. He begged me to demand reward. I told him the only merit I wanted was you. And so… here I am.”

Stunned, Ome squeezed Wall’s hand. Then a crucial thought struck her. “How are the districts?” she asked. “Certainly you’ve become acquainted with them.”

“Rebuilding.”

“How are the King and Queen?”

Wall smiled. “_Rebuilding_. Mer and Nim will never return to the way they were, but what is ahead of them may be better than what they had.”

“I see,” said Ome. “You came to know everyone after Mer made you human.”

“I did.” Wall smiled. “I admit the experience is far different from being a Sleeper. But I wouldn’t give it up. If it means I can be with you, Ome, I’d die again just to shed my wings and climb to you in the heart of the night.”

“I love you,” she boldly whispered behind a smile.

Wall leaned forward, touching his hand to her face and kissed Ome, pressing his lips into hers. He pulled her close, feeling her body as it warmed against his own. He held her tight, close to the beat of his human heart. As the kiss subsided, Wall leaned back and tenderly – silently – mouthed the words, “I love you too.”


End file.
